


Rings of Enchantment

by shinigami_yumi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A third of the listed characters are going to die or it wouldn't be a MURDER mystery, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Hunters, Alternate Universe - Witches & Familiars, Complete, Dog Dean, Dog Rufus, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Murder Mystery, Nipple Play, Rimming, There is probably a lot less A/B/O and a lot more everything else than you're expecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinigami_yumi/pseuds/shinigami_yumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sastiel-bigbang.livejournal.com">Sastiel Big Bang</a> 2014's Big Bang Route:</p><p>Sam Winchester just wanted his life to be as straightforward and normal as a witch's could be. After all, it was hard enough getting into university as a broke non-human Alpha without getting involved in a murder case. Unfortunately, when the supernatural police come to arrest him for murder, he's left with little choice but to prove his innocence. At least it doesn't hurt that Detective Castiel is a looker.</p><p><a href="http://sammysmitten.livejournal.com/631.html">Art post</a> by <a href="http://sammysmitten.livejournal.com">sammysmitten</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There are some awesome people I need to offer a billion thanks to for making this fic what it is, and I never think this can wait till the end, so here goes:
> 
> ♥ [sammysmitten](http://sammysmitten.livejournal.com) for the wonderful art and endless patience. It was a pleasure working with you!  
> ♥ [Meinarch](http://meinarch.tumblr.com), one of my oldest friends and definitely the one I share the most fandoms with, for the beta, the support and all the hard work I didn't do while I was writing this instead. Never would have done it without you!  
> ♥ [APB](http://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com) for being amazing and consulting on Greek and Latin. I miss you so much! We're never online at the same time anymore!  
> ♥ [seatapp](http://seatapp.livejournal.com) for consulting on Finnish even though we're barely even acquainted. Thank you for being so kind and helpful!  
> ♥ [Elise](http://cutiepiekevin.tumblr.com) for agreeing to beta on such short notice. Thank you!
> 
> Clicking on the art below will take you to the full-sized version. Check out sammysmitten's [art post here](http://sammysmitten.livejournal.com/631.html) and leave some great feedback!

Sam Winchester surreptitiously glances through the one-way glass into the library’s Special Collections storage room again. He’s glad no one thought to make the one-way coating witchcraft-proof, but probably no one thought anyone would be desperate enough to try.

“There,” says Castiel, pretending not to look. He doesn’t quite succeed. Fortunately, no one can tell through the charmed shades. Castiel is a quirky detective from the Grigori, rather awkward and oddly attractive, but like any angel, had tried to smite him on sight for being an unsanctioned witch. Or a murder suspect. Sam’s not quite sure which. “Why is she here?”

The blonde they are tailing (Bela, a gorgeous British exchange student) silently closes the door behind her and starts looking through the books, moving quickly and purposefully from one shelf to the next.

“I wonder what she’s looking for,” Sam muses, then turns to Castiel. “C’mon, laugh at something I said.”

Castiel furrows his brow in confusion. “But you haven’t said anything funny. Why would I laugh?”

Sam doesn’t have to fake his chuckle. “So we look like we’re actually having a private conversation instead of pretending not to spy.” He doubles over a bit like he’s laughing harder and adds in a mutter, “Someone inside is looking this way.” Next to the room is the librarians’ offices, and a few of the staff are gazing out the window.

“Oh.” The angel laughs a little. It’s almost painful to watch, and Sam nearly forgets all about Bela. “Wait, someone’s coming.”

For a moment, Sam thinks Castiel means Bela is about to get caught, but as he looks up into the library, he catches blue eyes darting around the corner, the sound of footsteps trampling the fresh grass as they approach. No one inside the library can hear them, of course, but now they really need a good reason to be loitering in this deserted corner by the forest right outside the Special Collections room. Given the events thus far, they can’t afford to be under suspicion. Anyone could be involved, and there’s no telling which one of them would be willing to kill.

“Kiss me,” he whispers as it occurs to him precisely the sort of private conversation they need to be having in a place like this.

“What?” Blue eyes widen. “Why?”

The footsteps are almost on them — there’s no time to explain. So he just leans down and presses his lips to the angel’s, pulling the other close.

Oh.

Maybe that’s the other reason for the tension. Angels smell different —clean, a hint of ozone that overwhelms the nose when it hits— so he couldn’t tell earlier, but there’s no mistaking the taste of an Omega. He hadn’t even known angels had such traits, and he doesn’t know if it has anything to do with Angelic Grace, but Castiel tastes exquisite.

He can’t resist the Alpha instinct to deepen the kiss and grip the other a little tighter, to press him gently to the glass with a knee between his thighs, and Castiel makes a sound at once of protest and desire, but opens up to him willingly, reaches up to cup his cheek and tangle a hand in his hair.

Fuck, but he _wants._ And from the reaction, it seems Castiel does too.

He lets his hand slip lower, shifts his knee a little higher, and the angel tugs him closer, almost desperately—

[ ](http://s3.photobucket.com/user/shinigami_yumi/media/ROE_kiss_zps9aa643e2.jpg.html)

“Get a room, boys.”

The familiar drawl has them darting back, away from each other in a rush, skin flushed and breathless.

It’s Vice President Crowley, though President Hazel’s untimely demise probably means the word “vice” in the title now more aptly describes all the business he’s rumored to do on the side.

“You do realize that glass is one-way and everyone inside can see you?” He shrugs, adjusting his long black coat a safe distance away. “See, I don’t care, but the last thing I need is another scandal to deal with, savvy?”

“Y—yes, sir.” Sam nods hurriedly, glancing past Castiel into the library just in time to see Bela leaving Special Collections, empty-handed as far as he can tell. “C—c’mon.” He hopes Crowley doesn’t suspect them — he’s quite sure that was the Vice President he saw with Brady earlier, and it’s clear Brady is involved with the case somehow.

He leads Castiel away with an arm around the waist, and the detective allows it, trudges along beside him willingly enough despite his obvious discomfiture. It’s hard to think of anything except continuing where they left off, but as soon as they are far out of earshot and alone again, the angel abruptly stops and shoves him away.

“Why did you do that?” Castiel demands in quiet anger. His lips are a little red, and he’s still short of breath, though whether from earlier or his present fury, it is unclear.

“I’m sorry!” Sam says, taking two big steps back to where he can no longer smell the other’s intoxicating scent, and he really is. He’d never intended to offend the angel. He’s still technically at the Grigori’s mercy, and the other has thus far kindly given him the benefit of doubt. “It was the least suspicious thing to be doing by that window,” he explains, holding both hands up in supplication.

“I could have flown us out of there,” Castiel points out testily.

So he could, “But then everyone would know you’re Grigori. Plus, we would have missed what Bela was doing inside.”

“Were _you_ paying any attention to what she was doing?”

“Well, um… She left empty-handed,” he offers weakly.

The detective seems to think for a moment, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back. He’s wet — Sam could smell the sweet slick earlier, and he takes another step back, fearing he’ll be untoward if he doesn’t keep his distance. _It’s a purely biological reaction,_ he tells himself, willing his erection away. Castiel would probably rather pretend it never happened too, given where things stand between them.

“We need more information,” the other decides at last, turning to go. “There are too many possibilities.”

“Wait!” He clamps a hand over his mouth, realizing the volume and impropriety of his sudden outburst.

A brilliant blue glare focuses on him. “Yes?”

“You can’t— I mean… Uh… I—it’s not a good idea to go anywhere alone like that,” he finishes lamely. Castiel is on the verge of snapping, so he hopes it didn’t come across overly presumptuous.

The angel tilts his head and blinks owlishly, clearly uncomprehending.

“I—I um…” _Oh God, get yourself together, Sam. Surely you can string two sentences together without embarrassing yourself._ “I can uh… smell you. And if I can, then others can too. Some Alphas aren’t very err… polite.” And the thought makes him grimace, like a sick twist to the gut.

Castiel smiles thinly. “I can take care of myself, Sam Winchester.”

He blushes. Definitely presumptuous. “O—of course. I just— I mean—”

“—AAIEEEK!!!”

They exchange glances.

The loud shriek seems to have come from the other side of the library.

Castiel nods, and they rush there. It’s easy to find the source — there are people running about in a panic, and some are standing in a loose circle around something, staring and taking pictures with their phones. With the detective close behind, Sam presses through the crowd for a look and silences a gasp of horror.

It’s Bela.

Dead by a bullet to the head.


	2. Chapter 1

_~Earlier that week~_

It’s early on a Monday morning, and the crisp breeze tousles Sam Winchester’s floppy bowl-cut hair as he walks across campus with his brother, Dean. More precisely, they are witch and familiar, but growing up together under Sam’s mentor and old family friend, Bobby, they are very much brothers, and the bond the three share as a family is strong.

Dean found Sam two weeks after his birth, when Dean himself was just four, and they have been together ever since. It was Dean who mourned Sam’s mother, Mary, most when she died mysteriously, since Sam had been too young to know what was happening, and it was Dean who helped Bobby with Sam when John, Sam’s father, left them at Bobby’s and never came back. No one’s under any illusions — Mary was the witch in the family, and being only human, John’s search for her killer couldn’t have ended well. He hadn’t even known Mary was a witch until their other dog, Eddie, took human form before dying as he attempted to save Mary from the fire that killed them both.

The large campus of Excolo University is a mix of old and new buildings surrounded by sprawling greenery. There are beautiful parks, gardens and woods around almost every corner, and they are the nation’s top university for the study of botany. Somewhat more surprisingly, they also have an excellent law school, which Sam fully intends to get into in three years’ time. Sam has work at the administration building (one of the oldest buildings on campus, but fully refurbished just last year) before his first class at 12:40pm, and Dean, as usual, is using the walk there to try talking him into getting a girlfriend.

“What about Amelia?” he suggests, and Sam’s lost track of where they are on his list of female acquaintances, some of whom he only very remotely knows. “You guys have been hanging out a lot.”

He shakes his head. “We’re just friends, Dean. I like her _dog._ ”

The blond almost pouts. “What, I’m not good enough for you?”

In his other form, Dean is a gorgeous emerald-eyed golden retriever, not that he’s any less attractive as a human — he’s certainly popular either way.

“Oh, c’mon man, having Rufus never kept Bobby from spoiling you rotten.”

Rufus is Bobby’s familiar, a large and fearsome Rottweiler. While everyone tries to pat Dean, Rufus keeps strangers firmly off Singer Salvage.

“I resent that, bitch.”

“Jerk,” he replies automatically when he catches sight of someone familiar as they come within sight of the administration building’s stone façade. “Hey, look.”

[ ](http://s3.photobucket.com/user/shinigami_yumi/media/ROE_SDBC_zps9eb28f47.jpg.html)

Two girls are hurrying down the steps hand-in-hand, one lightly tanned in a red dress with long wavy golden hair, the other chocolate-skinned with long black curls and wearing a blue sweater and jeans.

Dean checks them out unsubtly. “Friends of yours, Sammy? That’s my boy. They’re hot.”

“They’re new,” Sam corrects, rolling olive eyes. “Exchange students. Bela, the blonde, is from the UK. Cassie is originally from Missouri. We’ve got Latin together.”

“Well, well, sounds like my baby brother’s taken an interest.”

“Yeah, um…” Sam ducks his head, hiding his slight blush under his bangs. “I was thinking of asking Bela out this week. She’s smart, smells good too — I think a Beta.”

“Yeah? Atta boy.” Dean turns for another good, long look. “Me, I’m more into— Wait a minute.” He perks up. “That girl, you said her name’s Cassie? She’s a familiar, like me.”

Sam whirls. “What?”

“Huh, what do you know? You never could pick the normal girls.” Dean shrugs.

Sam groans, burying his face in his hands. “I suppose it makes for a lot less explaining,” he concedes.

Given his track record (the first died in a mysterious fire, the next turned out to be a werewolf, the third a girl who mostly hyperventilated in his presence, and after a brief escapade with a siren, he’d quite simply given up and decided to take a long hiatus from it all), he figures a fellow witch counts as pretty ordinary.

“Well,” Dean claps him on the shoulder as they climb the stairs, “don’t you slack off or chicken out on me, Sammy. You’d damn well better have a date lined up for us both this weekend, you hear me?”

Sam pauses midway through the door. “Don’t you have to be at work in fifteen, Dean? You’re going to be late.” Dean works at the local mechanic’s. Of course, Martin doesn’t know he’s a familiar.

His brother frowns. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I—”

Just then, the security alarm goes off.

Looking at each other in confusion, everyone grabs the personal belongings they have on hand and hurries outside as trained.

“What’s going on?” Shawna, one of his colleagues, asks no one in particular as she passes, but before anyone can hazard an answer, a lady (one of the secretaries upstairs, if Sam remembers right) bursts through the door of the emergency stairwell.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!!!” she cries in a panic, running out, tears streaming down her terrified face. “The President is dead!!!”

The police are milling about the fourth floor crime scene, and some officers are questioning some of the people out here — from what he’s overheard, the prevailing opinion is murder, but the weapon that inflicted the stab wound in the victim’s neck appears to be missing. All Sam can think about, though, is the lingering energy of spellwork around the building.

Does it mean Bela was the killer? If so, why would she use a weapon? Perhaps to make it look like an ordinary murder and keep the Grigori off her trail? But then why use the Craft at all?

The Grigori are the supernatural police, notorious for their radical interrogation techniques and even more extreme punishments. Named after the original watchers of humanity and once made up entirely of angels, it seems the angels protested the name until the introduction of the non-angelic membership. Although any non-angel had to prove they were righteous and “clean” (meaning they didn’t harm humans or otherwise contravene the laws of Heaven) before being sanctioned, none of that could change the angelic perception that they were impure, and the angels now consider the name terribly apt. Till this day, only angels are allowed to work in the field alone — everyone else needs an angelic partner or supervisor, no matter how many years they’d been sanctioned.

Sam couldn’t blame anyone for wanting to avoid the Grigori enough to practically hand themselves in to the human police, but why would Bela kill the University President? She’s only been stateside for two weeks. Surely a fortnight isn’t enough to cultivate a motive for the murder of a person she barely interacted with. Unless… they knew each other before. Or that isn’t what the spell was for. Would that mean there was someone else involved? Or perhaps she had used magic to distract him for Cassie to deliver the killing blow.

Sam shakes his head — too many questions. If only he could get close enough to cast a tracing spell, he would be able to determine the nature of the spell and its caster, but of course, the police have almost the entire floor taped off. Technically, he supposes it’s none of his business, but he wishes he knew whether he’d been planning to ask a murderer out later in Intermediate Latin.

“Hey.” He looks up from where he’s seated on the stone steps. Dean called Martin to say he’d be late because the cops won’t let anyone leave. “How long do you think they’re gonna keep us here, man? We didn’t even see anything.”

Just then, one of the officers announces over a megaphone that the police will be closing off the building for the investigation and that anyone who isn’t being questioned can leave. That means work’s out of the question for the rest of the day, possibly much longer, and he might have to find another job. He needs the hours and the money — he can’t afford to wait till any longer than next week for them to reopen the building. Still, there’s nothing to be done about it, and he will accomplish nothing by staying, so he climbs to his feet and joins the quickly dispersing crowd.

“Let’s go, Dean.”

The blond falls into step beside him. “Guess this means we won’t be having that date this weekend.”

Sam shoots his brother a Look. “Would you?”

Dean shrugs as they step out of the building’s shadow into the morning sunshine. “Sure I would. Best way to investigate.”

“Right.” Sam’s expression morphs into what Dean fondly calls his bitchface, one of many. “Don’t you have work, Dean? As I recall, you said you’d be late, not absent.”

“Ugh.” He glances at his watch. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“It’s that way.” Sam pushes him in the direction of Martin’s workshop. “Now hurry up and go. I’ll see you at home.”

They part with a clap to the shoulder, and Sam watches Dean jog off for several moments before turning towards the library. If he can’t work, he can at least get some required reading done for tomorrow’s class before the entire morning goes to waste.

He’s barely rounded the corner when he’s stopped by a hand to the forehead and vise-like grip on his wrist. “Halt, witch,” says a deep voice with a strangely resonant quality. “With the authority vested in me by the Grigori, I am placing you under arrest for the suspicion of murder.”

“Wait, what?!” The other is strong — he can’t escape. “Who are you?!”

“I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord,” the other explains simply.

He has short dark hair and the bluest eyes Sam has ever seen. He’s also wearing a tan trench coat over his black business suit despite the increasingly warm spring day, and his blue tie is inside-out. More notably though, Sam finds his attention drawn to the other’s scent — it’s like nothing he’s ever smelled before, otherworldly, and being an Alpha, Sam picks up a great many scents just walking around. He can’t help but be intrigued, and Castiel being easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt either.

“Now, come, Sam Winchester,” the angel continues. “You will be tried and punished for your crime.”

That snaps Sam out of his daze.

“Cr— What?! Wait, wait, wait. I haven’t killed anybody!” he protests, flailing wildly and pushing the other’s hand away.

“We will hear your testimony later.” Castiel reaches for his brow again, and he hurriedly leans away.

“T—testimony? No, wait, please! I don’t even know whom I’m being accused of murdering!”

The detective pauses. “So you claim ignorance of the murder of President Edward Hazel? Know that such shallow pretenses will not save you from justice.”

“Th—the President?!” Olive eyes widen. “Why would I kill the President? I don’t even know the President! A—and the police said he was stabbed. Why am I even a suspect? Why are the Grigori even here?!”

“There were clear signs of witchcraft on the scene of the crime, and you, Sam Winchester, are the only unsanctioned witch in the vicinity.”

Castiel moves to teleport them away again, and Sam steps aside to evade, shaking his head. This is… This can’t be. He doesn’t even know how this Grigori officer can already know his name.

“No… You would bring me in, by mere virtue of my birth, for a crime I haven’t committed? I—I prayed to angels as a child. You’re supposed to be just!”

Blue eyes soften just a little, and the other sighs. “If you are innocent, the investigation will bring that to light. Now, please, come peacefully. Do not force my hand.”

“No. No, please.” He continues to shake his head, stepping back as far as he can. “I’ve heard about your investigations and interrogations. If I go with you now, you will never let me go until either I confess or someone else is convicted. I won’t be tortured into pleading guilty just because I didn’t get a license from you like your undercover agent here before going in to work this morning!”

“We don’t tort— What did you just say?”

“A license!” Sam cries, trying to twist his wrist out of the other’s grip. “Must I be sanctioned just to go to college? Must I—”

“No,” Castiel interrupts sternly. “About the undercover agent. What did you say?”

“Bela. Bela Talbot. The other witch in my class? She’s working for you, isn’t she? That’s how you know witchcraft was involved. She was checking out the crime scene earlier.”

The detective levels Sam a hard look, his piercing blue eyes seeming to bore right through to the soul. Finally, he lets go, lowering his other hand slowly, and Sam nearly falls back in the sudden imbalance.

“I am the first Grigori agent to be sent here,” the other says then, his eyes never leaving Sam’s. “There are no records of any sanctioned witches operating in the area.”

Sam blinks, cradling his sore wrist. “Then—”

“Show me, Sam Winchester,” the detective commands, brows furrowed. “This Bela you speak of. But be warned,” his glare turns sharp, “if this is a trick…”

“No!” Sam raises both hands in supplication. “It’s not, I swear! I have a class with her at two.”

Castiel tilts his head then. “It’s a quarter to ten.”

“Hmm…” Sam frowns, pensive. “I don’t know her well enough to know where she’d be at this hour.” Before the other can remark on that, he adds, “What? It’s only the second week of class,” defensively. “Still, if we can get back to where she was earlier, I could use a tracing spell to find her.”

There’s a long pause before “You mean to return to the scene of the crime.”

“W—well. That _is_ where I last saw her.”

“That fits the behavioural pattern of a serial killer,” Castiel muses, still staring unnervingly at him.

“T—that’s…”

“But very well.” The detective takes his hand and begins walking towards the administration building. “Let us see if we can’t get past the police.”

The main entrance is fully cordoned off, but a bit of magic gets them through a locked back door into the basement of the emergency stairwell. They climb quietly, keeping to the walls to avoid being spotted, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s around to see them. They make it all the way to the fourth floor undetected, but Castiel shakes his head at the door.

“It’s overrun with policemen,” he whispers. “We cannot get any nearer.”

“That’s fine.” Sam moves away from the door to a corner of the landing. “This is close enough.” He can feel enough residual energy for a tracing spell here. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small pouch and removes his emerald pendulum from the bag before jiggling the rune lots inside. Catching the angel’s stare makes him sheepish, and he ducks his head. “W—what? It’s better than a map when you’re lost in some of the woods around here.”

Castiel doesn’t reply, and he closes his eyes, focusing on the spell’s residual energy as he continues jiggling the rune lots. When he’s sure his focus and intent is clear enough, he whispers, “Tutki.”

As he opens his eyes, six wooden lots float out of the bag into the air, arranging themselves in two rows. Two runes, almost touching make up the first, and four spell out the equivalent of BELA in the second.

“I hope you don’t do that in public,” is Castiel’s first remark, and Sam almost drops everything as the detective comes closer.

“No, I only use the pendulum in public, mostly.” He’s well aware of the law of secrecy, but more importantly, “It wasn’t a spell that killed President Hazel.”

“No,” Castiel agrees. “This was a seeking spell. She was looking for something.”

Sam looks at him, surprised. Castiel catches the expression and tilts his head.

“I may not use witchcraft, but that doesn’t mean I have no idea how it works. Are you certain that is the only spell used here?”

Sam nods. “It’s the only one I can sense.”

Castiel thinks for a moment, then looks expectantly at him. “I sense you speak the truth, but we still need to talk to Bela. Just because she didn’t use magic doesn’t mean she didn’t commit the murder.”

“Right.” He lifts his pendulum and focuses on the spell, on the energy of its caster. “Näytä tietä,” he murmurs, and it swings to the right. Come on,” he says, descending the stairs. The pendulum shifts as they switch directions. “It’ll take us to her.”

It has been over an hour since they left campus, and they’ve walked through downtown and into the residential area, and there is still no sign of Bela. Castiel seems unaffected, but despite working out regularly, Sam is starting to tire.

More importantly, he doesn’t want to miss his 12:40pm class. It’s just one class, but he bets they’re all watching, waiting for him to slip up, so they can take his scholarship away and say he should have tried out for the athletics program instead like all the other Alphas. He’s so sick of being stereotyped.

He should have thought to check the distance before they started walking.

Abruptly, Castiel stops. “Are you certain this is the right path?” His tone isn’t weary; it’s suspicious.

“Yes!” Sam assures hurriedly, turning. “I just…” He ducks his head, feeling very sheepish. “I should have checked the distance before we started. The pendulum only tells the direction. I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I have a class at twelve-forty, and I don’t want to miss it. Why can’t we just talk to them at two?”

For a moment, it seems Castiel might relent, then, “You forget, Sam Winchester, that you are still a suspect in this case. I c—”

“But I didn’t even cast the spell at the crime scene!” he protests.

“We have only established who cast the seeking spell, not who killed Edward Hazel.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest further, but the futility of it dawns, and he slumps. Instead, he runs his free hand through his hair and says, “Then follow me to class.” When the detective doesn’t reply, he adds, “I won’t fight or run. If Bela skips Intermediate Latin, we’ll look for her again. And if we don’t find her by the end of today, you may bring me in.”

The angel still doesn’t reply, and when he looks up, he finds blue eyes focused intently on something behind him. He turns to see what the other is looking at, but then Castiel has grabbed his hand and is dragging him along again — towards one of the houses.

He’d tell the angel that people only hold hands when they’re really close, but right now, the fact that they are trespassing is of far greater importance. “What are w—”

Then he notices it — the door is ajar, just a crack, but someone’s clearly broken in — the lock is damaged. Castiel makes the door open wide enough for them to enter and pulls Sam in with him.

“Wait, wait.” Sam digs his feet in at the threshold. “What if we get accused of breaking and entering?”

“We won’t be,” the detective answers simply, walking further in.

He’s too strong for Sam to stop where he is. “I mean, by the human police,” he clarifies helplessly.

“I understand,” comes the reply. The other doesn’t even turn. “We won’t be. We haven’t broken anything.”

Sam gapes. _No,_ he wants to wail. _You don’t understand at all. We could get mistaken for the people who broke into this house, just like you’re mistaking me for the person who murdered President Hazel—_ whose photograph with a lady is hanging lopsided on the wall above the mantelpiece before him. He takes a second.

The house is a mess.

Someone has ransacked President Hazel’s house. Items are scattered, the expensive furniture is in disarray, and there’s a faint pungent odor in the air he can’t place. He doesn’t resist as Castiel leads him down the hallway’s pristine white walls and wooden floor. There’s a study built almost entirely of mahogany — books and papers are strewn everywhere; the safe is busted open, clearly by force. They go up the stairs to find the bedroom turned upside down and the walk-in wardrobe and marble bathroom in as much of a disarray as the rest of the house.

“What were they searching for?” Castiel wonders aloud.

Sam looks around. “Well, we could see if watching what they did in here tells us anything.” There’s a full length mirror on the door leading from the bedroom to the walk-in wardrobe that has a good view of the room. “When do you think they were here?”

Castiel considers him for several moments, then shifts his gaze to look around the room again. “They haven’t been gone long,” he pronounces at last. “Perhaps ninety minutes ago.”

“All right.” He extends his free hand towards the simple gold-framed mirror. “Let’s try the last two hours then,” he murmurs, focusing on that. “Praeterita aperi.”

The mirror seems to cloud over for a moment, then an image swims into view. At first, it’s just the bedroom, pristine, tidy and empty. Then six people enter, all young men dressed simply in T-shirts and jeans. He recognizes one of them, to his surprise.

“That’s Brady,” he breathes. “What— Why is he here?”

“Brady?” 

The men nod at each other, then begin searching the room, trashing it as they turn over every item.

“He’s my classmate. We have criminal justice together,” he explains absently, watching as they even search under the mattress and between the pastel pink sheets. “You know, that class at twelve-forty?”

The men stop and exchange glances. One of them says something.

“Gotta wonder what’s in that stupid book,” Castiel lip-reads softly.

“Whatever it is, we’ve gotta get it before they do,” says Brady. “They’ve already got the wife. Hopefully, she knows nothing.”

 _They?_ Sam wonders. _So there’s more than one party involved?_

One of the others kicks the bedpost in frustration. “Well, it’s not here. One more wild goose chase, and I swear I’m gonna f—”

“Let’s just go,” Brady interrupts, walking briskly to the door. “We’re wasting time.” The others follow him out after a beat.

The room in the mirror remains empty for some time, and Sam’s about to end the spell when he catches some movement out of the corner of his eye. He waits and is rewarded by Bela and Cassie entering the room. But they only look around and exchange glances before leaving.

“So they were here!” he declares triumphantly, turning to the detective.

Castiel nods slowly, lost in thought. “We must apprehend this Brady,” he concludes after several moments. “He seems to be in charge of that group.”

Sam brightens. “Then let’s head back to campus. We should be able to catch him before or after class.”

They’re about to head back down the staircase when they hear some commotion below. Two sets of footsteps, heavy with boots, and static from some kind of radio.

“—bors reported unidentified people entering, and the locks are broken, sir,” a woman’s voice reports.

“Shit,” Sam hisses, tugging the angel back into the bedroom with him. “I told you about the police.”

The footsteps move further into the house.

“At this rate, we’re going to be the only suspects. Tell me you have a plan, Cas; tell me you have a plan. We’re g—”

Castiel touches his forehead, and the world falls away. Then suddenly, it rushes back, dizzying.

“Wh—”

Sam blinks, looks around, whirling.

“Whoa.”

They’re back on campus, over by the computer center where they’d met earlier.

“Whoa, you teleport?” He turns to face Castiel. “That’s amazing.”

“We fly,” the angel corrects, but he looks almost shy in the face of Sam’s open awe. “But I suppose, to you, it is similar to teleportation.”

“Fly as in with wings?”

“Y—yes.”

The detective seems discomfited by the interest, so Sam steps back.

“S—sorry. Um…” He glances at his watch — it’s five minutes to twelve noon. “That class. Um, this way.”

He starts walking, and Castiel follows along without hesitation. The class is in Houdin Hall, home to the Department of Social Sciences. He decides to go through Epulos, the central food court and university store, so he can stop for a sandwich on the way there. He’s starving, but he doesn’t think he has the time or the justification to stop for lunch. When he stops outside the deli, Castiel squints at him quizzically.

“I—I’m hungry,” he mumbles sheepishly as his stomach growls at the smell of food. The spinach pie next door smells delicious. Maybe he should get that with a kebab wrap instead. He switches lines.

The angel nods, standing beside Sam in line. “Yes, humans require sustenance in many forms.”

Sam doesn’t answer. They are already getting weird stares from the crowd, though whether because they overheard the conversation or because he’s walking around with a strangely dressed older man, he can’t be sure. Castiel looks around, taking in his surroundings — the various foods, the bustle of people, the various activities in progress at the surrounding tables.

“Earlier,” he says suddenly as they step forward, and Sam turns to him. “What did you call me?”

The witch furrows his brows in confusion.

“In the house,” the angel clarifies. “Before we left. What did you call me?”

“Oh.” That. “Cas. Uh… Sorry if it seems overly familiar.” He keeps his gaze trained firmly on the floor.

“It is not of import.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t really know what to make of that. Fortunately, it’s his turn to order. He orders the pie and wrap with some iced tea and asks if the detective wants anything, but Castiel only shakes his head, continuing to watch the people around him go about their daily lives. As they wait for his order, Castiel turns to him once more.

“Why do people pursue knowledge that they detest?”

It takes a long moment for Sam to realize that the angel must have heard some students complaining about their classes. “Sometimes they have to as part of learning the subject that really interests them. And sometimes, there are… other motivating circumstances.”

From the puzzlement in blue eyes, he sees he needs to clarify.

“Such as needing a good job, familial influences, certain limitations…”

The other nods, seeming to understand. “Are you pursuing knowledge you enjoy?”

Sam blinks, pleasantly surprised by the interest. “Yes, I’ve known for a while now that I want to study law.”

Castiel nods again. “That is good. A sincere pursuit will lead to success, Father willing.”

Oh, right.

He retrieves his order as the lady calls his number and heads out the other set of doors with the angel close behind. Turning towards Houdin Hall, he sighs.

First, he has to convince the Grigori to let him continue this “sincere pursuit” instead of taking him to prison.

Brady, as Sam should have expected, skipped class. This is their third class together, and Brady has never been one for a stellar attendance record if it wasn’t strictly necessary to ace the class. Detective Castiel is giving him a Look that all but screams, “You lied to me!” and it is taking every ounce of Sam’s Alpha chutzpah not to cower.

“You said he’d be here,” the angel says accusingly as they exit the classroom after the lecture.

“I said he should be,” he corrects. “I had no way of knowing that he wouldn’t come to class today.”

Suddenly, he’s being pinned to the corridor wall, and the other students whistle or giggle as an oblivious Castiel leans in to whisper. “You should show some respect, Sam Winchester. I could have detained you immediately, and I can still do so now.”

Sam swallows thickly and lowers his eyes. “Twenty minutes to the class with Bela.”

There’s a long pause before the detective steps back and lets him go. He peels himself away from the painted cement and fixes his plaid shirt as he walks. He certainly hopes Bela doesn’t skip class too.

Sam could sink to the floor in relief when he arrives in 302 Aristo Hall to find Bela and Cassie already chatting there with some of their other classmates. He’s about to walk in when Castiel grabs his hand and pulls him aside.

“You can’t alert her.”

“Secrecy, right?” He nods, looking down at their hands. Castiel hasn’t let go, and his hand is warm, soft, a little weathered. “I know. We need to get her alone. I’ll uh… I’ll ask her out.”

Just then, the door opens. “Hey Sam.”

He turns. It’s Cassie, heading down the corridor, presumably to the washrooms a few doors down.

“Hey, early as usual.” He smiles.

“New boyfriend?” She tips her head towards the angel. “He’s cute.”

“W—What?” He twists his hand out of Castiel’s, feeling a blush rising with his panic. “He’s— He’s um…”

She laughs as she passes. “Ooh, Sam likes the experienced ones, hm? You don’t have to be shy about it.” She disappears into the ladies’.

Sam sighs. “Or not.”

The detective looks at him quizzically, so he shakes his head.

“Well, you can’t really join the class. Where will you wait?”

“Where I can watch. Go.”

Castiel walks to the stairs, and Sam turns just as Professor Løkse rounds the corner. Gabriel Løkse teaches Greek and Latin, has a great, often sadistic sense of humor and makes Sam feel like a giant. He watches Castiel leave for a few moments before turning to Sam with a grin.

“Hey buddy, batting for both teams?”

He laughs as Sam hurriedly splutters, “N—no! It’s not like that!”

“Well, today.” He sets his things down on the desk and smooths out his wind-mussed dark hair. “Let’s put the Romance back into this language and have at some Latin love poetry! Now, before you all sigh, let me tell you those Romans were _way_ ahead of their time. And if you think this is exciting, sign up for my Greek class next semester. I’m positive it’ll come in handy.”

He winks at Sam who is beginning to wish he really could sink into a hole in the floor, then begins reading a poem from Catullus with gusto, and Sam doesn’t need to know all the words to feel scandalized.

“So.” Gabriel sets the sheet of paper he’s reading from down and turns to the class. “Would anyone like to tell us about this poem?” A pause. “No? Sam?”

And Sam almost, _almost_ regrets taking the class.

As soon as class is dismissed, Sam runs after Bela. “Hey.”

“Sam! I think Prof’s got a thing for you.” Bela grins, walking down the stairs.

“If by thing, you mean vendetta, then yeah, I’d say he does.” The faculty probably all do — an Alpha on a full ride is probably their prime example of misappropriated research funding. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Cassie and I have a class in Blaine at four, so we’re going to drop by Epulos for a bite on the way there.”

“And after that?” He still can’t think of any better, unsuspicious way to get her alone than to ask her out, and he hopes she’s free after this.

“Hm? No way.” Cassie whirls on him. “Are you asking Bela out? I thought Constantine back there was your boyfriend!”

“What? No! You didn’t even hear me out!”

“You were already holding hands!”

“That was—”

Bela pats Cassie on the shoulder. “Sam’s just shy.” She turns to him with a glint in her green eyes, and Sam thinks Dean may be right — between her scent, beauty and brains, he’d date her even if she did kill people on the side. “It’s completely normal, you know. And we can still do tea. You can bring your boyfriend along and chat to us about how you’ll be using all that Latin we just learned.” They’ve reached the bottom of the stairs.

He silences a groan. “I keep telling you he’s not my boyfriend.” Still, a private coffee date for four is exactly what Detective Castiel would want. He sighs, slumping a little. “But I can bring him if you want.” They exit the double doors of Aristo Hall into the warm afternoon sun.

“So he’s not your boyfriend, but he’ll come if you call?” Cassie taps her chin. “An escort then?”

“No! He was just asking me some questions!”

“While holding your hand?”

“Yes! He’s… some kind of alternative doctor.” It’s the first thing that came to mind, and maybe, just maybe, it’s plausible. _Who are you kidding, Sam?_ Still, there’s nothing left to do but salvage it. “He was talking to me about preventive healthcare!”

“By holding your hand?” Bela this time — they are clearly having far too much fun at his expense, and he can’t help wondering if Bela would have agreed to coffee if she didn’t think he was gay.

“Yes.” Probably not. If only the angel would come do the deed now and spare him this misery, but there are still too many people around. Not as much as usual, of course, but nowhere nearly deserted enough for a Grigori arrest. “That’s how he diagnoses people.”

“Huh, that’s pretty quaint.” They stop in front of Epulos. “Well, maybe he can diagnose us over tea then. Will you be available on Wednesday at six? I’m afraid I can’t spare a moment till then.”

“Yeah, sure.” Venue, venue… He scratches the back of his head. “Any good tea places you have in mind? I’ve always been more of a coffee person.”

“Well, I haven’t had much time to explore, but Ujiya does have a good selection, and there’s sushi if you’re not into the tea.”

“Sushi sounds good.” Expensive but good. Perhaps Castiel can bill the Grigori. Ha ha ha. At best, he can hope Castiel arrests her before they even sit down.

“Great! Then Wednesday at six in Ujiya. Catch you then!” She pulls open the door.

“Remember to put the moves on your cute doctor by then!” Cassie calls with a wink before following her master in, and Sam feels too defeated to even jump when Castiel suddenly appears beside him.

“I tried, all right?” he blurts before the detective can say anything, walking off towards his apartment.

“I know. I saw.” There’s a pause, then “Your Latin pronunciation is excellent.”

He looks sharply to the right at that. The angel may as well have remarked on the weather for all that his attention is completely focused elsewhere. He hopes the compliment wasn’t intended to make him feel better because now all he can think of are the number of spells that might be useful in digging a six-foot trench where he’s standing. He’s quite sure Professor Løkse chose the most vulgar poems for him to read on purpose.

“They’re cloaked,” Castiel pronounces without slowing, brow furrowed. “The young men at the house as well. They were prepared for our methods. We must find out what it is they are hiding.”

We, the detective says, like they’re a unit, like anything besides catching the killer with incontrovertible proof makes him any less a suspect, like being wrongly accused makes the entire investigation his problem. And he’s tired. He’s tired of alternately being treated like a criminal, mistaken for the other’s boyfriend and expected to help like one of the Grigori’s many Allies on Earth.

“Well, Bela and Cassie won’t be alone for some time, I can’t help you track Brady, and even if you’re going to arrest me, I need to get home first before my brother starts a riot in his worry.”

Castiel tilts his head, blinking owlishly. “Why would he start a riot?”

Sam sighs, rounding the corner onto the street his apartment is on. “It’s just— It’s just a figure of speech. You’re not…” He stops at the entrance to his apartment building and turns. “You’re not following me up, are you? I’m not cloaked, and now you know where I live. Why don’t you go follow Bela instead?”

“Our records don’t indicate that you have a brother.”

He gapes. “A—” No. He takes a deep breath, counts to five and lets it out again. Every Alpha instinct screams at him to at the very least throttle the angel, but he refuses to get in bigger trouble by letting nature get the better of him. So. Another deep breath. He can stay calm. “Dean is my familiar. But as you well know, we can’t tell people that, so my brother. It feels that way anyway.”

“I see.” He may be imagining the hint of chagrin on Castiel’s face. “I must insist on assessing him as well. If you are indeed to be detained, he will be detained with you.”

Sam slumps against the door, buries his face in his hands. No. No, no, no. It stands to reason, of course, but logical doesn’t mean he has to like it. “All right.” He runs both hands through his hair. “All right.” Castiel just needs to meet Dean, basically. It’s not like they’re being thrown in prison together immediately. He fumbles for his keys. “He should be home now. Let’s just head upstairs.”

“Of what?!”

If Dean can’t believe his ears, he’s going to make sure no one else can use theirs.

From his perch on the arm of the couch, Sam only lifts his eyebrows pointedly. Yeah. _Yeah._

“Murder,” Castiel repeats helpfully, still standing near the doorway.

Dean paces, sets his spatula down on the wooden dinner table to run a hand through his hair. “Man, I’d heard you guys were dicks, but this is a whole new level. So what, now you’re crazy too? I mean, look at him!” He waves at Sam. “C’mon, man, the kid feels bad surfing the internet for porn! He won’t even use his Alpha mojo to get laid, for fuck’s sake. And you think he coulda killed someone?!”

“Gee, thanks, Dean,” Sam mutters. _That’s some stellar character reference you’re giving._

“Until we find proof of his innocence, your master will remain a suspect in this case, Dean Winchester. The Grigori has its procedures.”

“Yeah? Well, they’re dumb ass procedures!”

“Dean.” Sam feels a headache coming on.

“What, you never q—”

“Dean!”

Dean stops and looks.

“It’s not going to change anything, all right? Nothing you say or do is going to change anything.”

“So you’re gonna just let this dickhead Columbo drag us off to Alcatraz, and—”

“Well, he’s not arresting us just yet…”

“No?” Dean whirls on the detective. “Then you can get the fuck out of my house.”

“Dean—”

“Sammy, he can arrest us right the fuck now or he can get the fuck out, but I won’t stand for him hanging around here accusing us of jack shit.”

Sam frowns — Dean probably calls it Bitchface #103 or something like that. “He c—”

“I need to track Bela Talbot,” Castiel interjects abruptly, blue gaze distant. “She should be in Blaine Hall by now.” So saying, he vanishes with what sounds like a rustle of feathers, leaving the Winchesters blinking at empty space.

“Well,” Dean says in the sudden silence, clearing his throat. “Good riddance.”

He heads back into the kitchen to cook the rest of their dinner, while Sam just lets himself fall back gracelessly into the couch. He’s positive he hasn’t seen the last of the Grigori.

Sam rolls in his bottom lip as he adds some information from a website to his outline for his paper evaluating the career of an intelligence analyst. It seems like a cool job, and he’d consider it if he weren’t so certain he wants to be a defense attorney. In fact, now that he knows what it feels like to be wrongly accused, he only wants the job more.

Dean comes out of the kitchen with a bottle of El Sol after doing the dishes and stops, stares. “Are you— Are you studying?!”

“I’m writing a paper,” he corrects absently, searching for details on work environment.

“Dude.” Dean comes over, sets his bottle down on the table. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been accused of murder, and you’re _writing your paper_?!”

"Life goes on whether or not the Grigori press charges, Dean." He switches tabs. This site is a little more helpful. "The university isn't going to accommodate late assignments due to an investigation they can't even substantiate."

Dean shakes his head, turns to walk away, taking his beer with him. "Sammy, I live with you, and you're still the weirdest person I know."

"Bela's house is warded against angels."

They both jump. Dean drops the bottle. Sam halts its fall just before it hits the floor, making it fly into his hand, and sags in relief, setting it safely on the table.

"Jesus fucking Christ! Did no one ever teach you to knock?!”

Detective Castiel looks quizzically at Dean from where he’s standing behind Sam. “I wasn’t using the door.”

“Yeah? Well, you should!”

Sam sighs tiredly as the angel frowns, turning to face him. “So what brings you back here?”

Castiel turns to him. “There is only one suspect I can track at the moment, so I am obligated to watch you, Sam Winchester.”

Dean bears down on the detective, finger pointed imperiously. “Now, you listen here, y—”

Sam stands abruptly. “Forget it,” he says, walking towards the bedroom. “Just forget it. I’m going to bed.”

Castiel nods, following him. “I understand. I will watch you sleep.”

Dean stops and grimaces. “Dude, that is the creepiest shit I’ve ever heard. What, you’re gonna count how many times he breathes too?”

Sam turns, looking disturbed. “Dean, I won’t ask how you know that.”

The angel looks from one to the other. “Why would I—? I don’t understand that reference.”

Dean opens his mouth, looks for a moment like he’s going to explain, then shakes his head. “No, let’s keep it that way.”

Sam heads straight into the bedroom they share and flops face down on the blue plaid sheets. He just really, really wants this day to be over.

Sam wakes to a flare of pain searing through his entire being, a hoarse scream trapped in his throat, and two orbs of blue fire in the darkness.

Then he blinks, his eyes adjust, and it’s Detective Castiel, expression indecipherable and eyes alight, hand on— no, _inside_ his chest and glowing, and he gasps, but it comes out a scream — it feels like being incinerated from his very core.

“Sammy!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean lunges at them from the bed beside his, but the angel sends him flying into the nearest wall with a wave of his hand.

_Dean!_

There is no response, so he turns his head with effort. In the hint of illumination from the moon and streetlights outside, he can see his dog motionless on the floor.

[ ](http://s3.photobucket.com/user/shinigami_yumi/media/ROE_soulfist_zps71cc0cc8.jpg.html)

“C—Cas,” Sam tries to say, grasping Castiel’s forearm with first one hand, then the other. “Wh—”

Then Castiel retracts his hand, turning away, and the pain is gone. “I apologize, Sam Winchester. I assure you, neither you nor your familiar have been harmed in any way. There was merely something I needed to ascertain.”

Then the angel is gone, and Sam feels his consciousness slip away.

Sam scribbles notes in Criminal Justice, but he’s only half paying attention. Brady is still not here, and he wonders what Latin will be like later, if Bela and Cassie will be there with Castiel shadowing them. He’d woken yesterday to find Dean cooking breakfast as usual and Castiel nowhere to be seen, as if the incident from the night before was a mere dream. Then, late last night, he’d almost leapt out of bed at a shout from Dean to find Castiel staring at them from the foot of his bed a moment before the angel vanished. Dean has declared himself officially creeped out. Sam doesn’t know what to think.

As class is dismissed, he half expects to find Castiel watching him from a corner in the back when he turns, but there’s no one, and he’s not sure whether it’s relief or disappointment that washes over him. He hurries down the university’s main avenue towards Aristo Hall alongside the throng of students rushing from one class to the next just like him, stops at a pedestrian crossing to wait for a few buses to pass.

That’s when he sees it.

Further down the road, in front of Hohenheim Science Center, Brady is walking with… is that Vice President Crowley? There is another person with them, a girl with short blond hair, and they are conversing rather animatedly about something. He glances at his watch — 17 minutes to Intermediate Latin. He could catch Brady for a quick chat perhaps, ask him why he hasn’t been to class in a while at least. So he switches directions, tries to catch up to them, but they’re walking rather briskly, and they have quite the head start. He gets close enough that he’s sure it’s Brady with Mister Crowley, but then they turn the corner at the next intersection, and even though he runs to catch up, by the time he looks around the corner, they are nowhere to be seen.

He wonders what they were talking about, whether it has anything to do with President Hazel. There’s no way to be sure, of course, but as he turns to head back towards Aristo Hall, he has the uneasy feeling that they weren’t talking about academic affairs.

Bela and Cassie didn’t make it to Latin today, and Sam can’t help wondering if their absence has anything to do with Detective Castiel. Professor Løkse, as usual, picked the most provocative pieces for him to read, but at least the day’s selection didn’t include Catullus. He hopes not all Latin poetry is so scandalous — surely that wasn’t all they wrote about.

“Sam Winchester.”

He jumps as Castiel steps out from behind a tree to impede his path. He’s headed home, but something tells him he’s going to have to tell Dean he’ll be back late.

“Detective,” he acknowledges with a nod, moving a little closer so they can converse more quietly.

“Do witches have a way of perceiving angels when we are not in physical form?”

Sam furrows his brow, thinking. “Well… I’ve never seen any spell specifically for that, but there could be other spells that work to that effect. Why?”

“Bela Talbot appears to know I am watching her. She has not left her house since I began doing so.”

“I see. Did you come just to ask this question?”

This seems to make the detective uncomfortable, and he hesitates before replying, “No, I came to ask if there is a way of watching her without being close enough to be perceived. I have planted a tracker on her that tells me she is now heading somewhere, but I fear she will change her mind if I check.”

 _And if I don’t help you, you will accuse me of abetting her crimes,_ Sam supplies mentally with a sigh. “Well, scrying over a long period of time is unreliable, but I can allow us to see through the walls if she goes inside a building or watch her from a distant vantage point. Which do you need?”

The Grigori agent seems to concentrate on something far away for a moment. “She has entered a large building close to where I first apprehended you,” he proclaims at last, returning his attention to Sam. “And it appears that she intends to remain there for some time. The option that allows us to see through walls might be more appropriate for now.”

“All right,” the witch accedes, taking out his phone to text Dean. He’s definitely going to be late. “First, we’re going to need two pairs of eyeglasses.”


	3. Chapter 2

_~Present day~_

Sam and Castiel walk briskly away from the body, away from the stench of blood and death, eager to make themselves scarce before any authorities arrive. They’d arrived too late to see anyone suspicious, Cassie’s nowhere to be seen, and Bela’s death only raised more questions.

“No ordinary gun can kill a witch. What the hell is going on here?” Sam asks after making sure there’s no one around, careful to keep his voice low.

“I—” Castiel shakes his head, stopping abruptly beside the Economics department, one of the oldest buildings on campus. “I don’t know.” He seems to catch Sam’s look of disbelief because he adds, “It’s true. I was only told to investigate a murder. I need to report what I have learned. The only gun I know of that can kill a witch is a lost relic. My superiors must be alerted that it has surfaced.”

Sam turns, remaining a safe distance away. “Then you’re going back?”

The detective nods. “Briefly, yes. I must.”

He mirrors the nod, troubled, sitting down on a nearby bench. “Right. Uh…”

For a moment, Castiel merely squints at him, head tilted, then his eyes widen, and he seems to understand. “Worry not, Sam Winchester. From what I have seen, I believe you are no murderer. I will not be detaining you.”

“Oh.” Sam could fall over in his relief. “Oh, that’s— That’s comforting. Thank you.”

Castiel walks towards the trees behind the building, then stops. “One last thing.” He turns back to Sam, looking more awkward and disquieted than ever. “I… hesitate to ask this of an unsanctioned civilian, but… perhaps you could assist me by gathering some information before I return?”

Sam is nodding before he’s even processed the request, and when his brain finally catches up, he adds, “I can try.” It’s not like he knows anything about all this investigative stuff, so more than likely, he’ll be no help at all. Still, it’s too late to back out now, and he has to admit his curiosity is piqued. “What is it?”

“I believe I may have found the reason for Bela Talbot’s involvement. Perhaps you could look into it?” Blue eyes meet his. “Her DNA partially matches Edward Hazel’s. She could be his unknown daughter.”

Back in his apartment, Sam drops his bag on the wooden coffee table and sinks into the couch with a sigh. It came with the apartment, and he doesn’t want to know what’s been on it, but it’s comfortable, so they just covered it with a dark green sheet.

“There you are,” Dean greets, coming out of their tiny kitchen with a spatula in hand and an apron over his shirt, the familiar smell of bacon and whisky permeating the air. “What happened to your stalker?”

“Bela’s dead. He had to report it.”

“What?” Dean takes the armchair. “How in hell?”

“That’s just it.” Sam pushes himself upright. “She was shot.”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah, it takes a very special kind of gun. A lost relic, Castiel called it. And get this.” He flops back down. “She’s Hazel’s daughter.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“There is no way that ugly old geezer had such a smokin’ hot daughter.”

He throws his brother a dirty look. “Is the stove still on in there?”

“Oh shit, yeah.”

Dean dashes back into the kitchen to rescue their dinner, and Sam’s about to doze off where he is when the doorbell rings. Tiredly, he pulls himself out of the tangle of soft cushions and drags himself over to the door. He wonders who it is — they don’t get many visitors. He hopes it’s not their vegan neighbor here to tell them Dean has the wrong kitchen window open again, and she really doesn’t appreciate the smell of bacon in her unit, not to mention there are ninety-nine reasons why they shouldn’t be eating bacon at all. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with Tara right now.

But when he opens the door, suddenly, he’s wide awake.

“Is he here?”

It’s Cassie, Bela’s familiar, pale with terror and covered in cold sweat as she keeps looking around like she’s trying to make sure she hasn’t been followed. He can smell her fear.

“Who?” he asks without thinking, looking around as well. It doesn’t look like she’s been tailed.

“T—that Grigori agent that’s been following you around,” she hisses. “I know an angel when I smell one.”

“No, he’s gone to report your master’s murder.”

She flinches, but nods. “Good, you’re being honest with me. Can I come in?”

For a moment, Sam thinks better of it, but then he steps aside. It’s him and Dean against her if she tries anything, and a familiar is greatly weakened by the death of its master. He’s more concerned about what has her so spooked, but he can’t sense anyone tailing her presently. He locks the door behind her and activates the protection wards around the apartment. It immediately has Dean rushing out for a fight.

He smiles thinly. “Look who’s here.”

His brother freezes, then narrows his eyes at Cassie. “Why are you here?”

She looks from one man to the other desperately. “I was hoping to find the angel detective. I need the Grigori. We’re siblings in the Craft, aren’t we? You’ve gotta help me.”

“You and your master nearly got Sammy arrested for murder,” Dean retorts sharply. “No, we don’t gotta help you.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Look, my master is no saint. She’s been using her powers to steal since she could control them. But she’s no murderer either.”

“That’s not what the Grigori think,” Sam informs her. Castiel would say that just because Bela is dead doesn’t mean she didn’t kill Edward Hazel. But that does explain why she was avoiding them — she probably thought she was wanted for theft, if nothing else.

That makes Cassie sigh and wearily run her hands through her tight curls. “Please.” Her dark eyes are bloodshot — she’s on the verge of tears. “I saw Bela’s killer. Long blond hair, dark red leather jacket, so fast. One moment, she was there, then she fired that cursed gun, and by the time the bullet hit Bela, she was gone. I went after her, but there was no trace of her anywhere in the vicinity. It’s like she just disappeared. And when they realize Bela doesn’t have the key, they’ll come for me.”

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Sam beats him to it. “Key? What key? Who are they?”

“The key that Bela found. I don’t know. I don’t know who they are.” She’s close to panic. “Please, just tell me where the angel is. It’s not safe. It’s not safe anywhere.”

“Okay, whoa, slow down. I don’t know how to call him, but Castiel says he’ll be back.” He takes a step closer, making sure he’s calm, so his scent will calm her down too. “Why don’t you just… sit down and tell us everything while we wait? He knows Bela is related to President Hazel.”

Cassie looks warily at them, then nods. Dean reluctantly relaxes and indicates a chair by the table.

“You look like you could use a drink. Coffee, beer or whisky?”

“I—I’ll take a beer, thank you.” She goes to the table with Sam and sits down to begin her story as Dean heads to the fridge with an approving nod.

“Edward Alcaz Hazel is Bela’s father. He left long before she was born, so he never knew he had a daughter. After her mother passed away, Bela went looking for her father, hoping to at least meet the man. After several months of digging, she found him and joined the student exchange program to come here. So she made an appointment the morning of his murder, the first slot, and came early to see if she could catch him before office hours.”

“How do you feel about bacon cheeseburgers?” Dean asks, poking his head out of the kitchen.

She turns. “Uh… They’re the best kind of burger…?”

The blond nods his approval, then brings them both a bottle of El Sol and a burger each before heading back into the kitchen to make a third burger for himself.

“Thank you. Anyway,” she takes a swig of beer and a bite of burger before continuing. “Instead, she found him dead, and the window sliding shut by itself. We ran to the window, and I think it was the same girl who killed Bela later. I caught a glimpse of long blond hair before she disappeared into the trees. So Bela tried looking for something, anything vital about her father before the police could lock everything away as evidence.”

Dean comes out to join them, and she quickly thanks him again for the food.

“This burger’s amazing.”

Dean gives her a flirty wink, grinning as he starts on his own burger and beer. “You betcha. It’s a Dean Winchester special.”

She smiles a little and nods, then turns back to Sam. “But anyway, all she found was this tiny key,” and she lifts the chain around her neck to show them a small silver key with a design he’s never seen before behind her triquetra pendant, “wrapped in a piece of paper with the code 9461 written on it.”

“That’s why she was in the library,” Sam surmises as he finishes his burger. That sort of key could only be for the kind of locks used on small jewelry boxes or books.

“Yes. Nothing in his office would fit. We went to search his house, but some people beat us to it. The place was ransacked when we found it. They even busted open his safe, but it wasn’t the combination type, so Bela figured the locked object probably wasn’t even there. A bit of digging showed he frequented the library —many articles about the man describe him as an avid reader— so we thought to try our luck there. It turns out Special Collections are stored in a restricted access room secured by a combination lock, and 9461 is the code. She tried looking for a locked book in there, but then I overheard people talking about using something in Special Collections, so I warned her the librarian was coming to retrieve it, and she left to avoid getting caught.”

“Before she could find what she was looking for.”

Cassie nods. “I was supposed to meet her outside, but when I got there…” The girl buries her face in her hands. “Please. Y—you’ve gotta get me to the Grigori. There’s someone killing people, and there’s someone else looking for this key — maybe they’re working together. But Bela’s gone. I don’t have any reason to figure this mess out anymore. I just—” She shakes her head. “I don’t wanna get killed too.”

To his surprise, it’s Dean who reaches out to pat her on the shoulder. “Hey, no worries, man. If you just hang out for a bit, that dick angel’s gonna come back ‘cause he’s stalking Sammy here.” He grins at Sam’s bitchface. “You’ll catch him, no problem.” Then again, Dean has always, with very few exceptions, been sweet on the ladies.

“Something doesn’t add up,” Sam muses, narrowing his eyes as he thinks the entire scenario through. “How do you know it’s the key they’re after? The killer could simply be eliminating witnesses. They didn’t even take the key when they killed Edward Hazel. What else do you know about him?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Bela used a spell to find something important to her father. The key is what it led to. People ransacked his house, so they were looking for _something._ Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not the key, and I’m just guessing. But either way, _my life is in danger._ The only safe place left for me is in Grigori custody.”

Personally, he’s not so sure. He’s heard plenty of horror stories, and even Castiel seems to operate under the assumption that anyone unsanctioned is guilty until proven innocent. Then again, a familiar is often compelled to obey its master’s orders, so she can’t be held accountable for Bela’s crimes. She could be right. At any rate, the possibility is better than awaiting certain death here.

“As for what else… well, I don’t know if this is relevant at all, but…” She hesitates. “Bela is completely human, and her mother, Edea Talbot, was the witch, but when we arrived that morning, President Hazel didn’t smell human. Yet, you just confirmed that he is indeed her father.”

The President, a non-human? That explained why Castiel had been so quickly assigned to the case.

“Anything familiar to you?” Dean asks, leaning forward.

“The scent? No.” Then she gives it a bit more thought. “Well, yes, in a way. He reeked of sulphur.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances. Sulphur — now that she’s mentioned it, he’s quite sure that’s the odor he detected in President Hazel’s house as well. This was something they’d only read about in Bobby’s books: evil creatures that stink of sulphur from the fires of their home and care nothing for the laws of the Grigori — demons. If they truly were involved, nothing good could come of this. That complicated things.

“All right,” Sam said, standing and mentally checking the wards on the apartment — they might need strengthening. Given their new information, it was safest to wait for Castiel’s return before acting. “I expect it’s not safe to go anywhere until the detective comes back, so you can stay here for now. There’s only two beds, but you can ask Dean if he’s willing to share.” There’s a sleeping pad by the heater that Dean uses in his dog form, and it would probably be less awkward that way.

“Hey, as long as we’re sharing,” the blond winks, “even the floor’s no problem.”

“It’s gentlemanly of you to offer to take the floor,” she says coolly, dusting a few crumbs off her faded black jeans as she rises. “Thank you for letting me use your bed.”

Sam grins as Dean protests, “Hey, th—”

Glass breaks to the left, and Cassie cries out in pain, spasming.

“Whoa! Cassie?” She collapses to the wooden floor as Sam reaches for her, falling to his knees. “Cassie!”

In his peripheral vision, Dean rushes to the window to peer out from the side and shakes his head, but all Sam can focus on is the blood blooming in her light gray sweater, the smell of propellant traces on the bullet. She’s dead. _She’s dead,_ her lifeless eyes staring vacuously up at him, and he clamps his hands over his mouth. He’s going to be sick. The rising stench of blood and dog, and all he can think about is it could have been Dean.

_Oh God._

He makes a mad dash for the bathroom, barely makes it in before he starts retching.

 _Hey._ Dean’s suddenly in the tiny bathroom with him, patting him on the back. _I’m here, Sammy. I’ve got you._

 _Oh my God, Dean, she was right there. She was right there, and I— And now, she’s dead. She’s dead on our floor, Dean!_ He retches more, empties out the contents of his stomach, and he doesn’t think he can eat another bacon cheeseburger anytime soon.

Dean just keeps patting his back as he slumps into the cold white tiles. _None of us saw it coming, Sammy. It’s not on you. No sign of the killer by the time I got to the window either. It’s fast, all right. And it’s a bullet too, probably the same gun that killed your girl, Bela._

He doesn’t feel there’s anything left to throw up, so he wipes his mouth and lets Dean help him stand despite the nausea, despite the burning bitterness of bile in his mouth. “We need to call the cops,” he rasps, staggering to the sink to rinse his mouth. _It’s not safe here. We need to go._

“Go? Go where? Back to Bobby’s?”

Shit. Dean’s right. They don’t have anywhere else here, and leaving means losing his full ride. He can’t afford to drop out. It was hard enough to convince them to give an Alpha a scholarship. He won’t get another chance. He washes his face and runs wet hands through his hair. Shit. He punches the wall beside the bathroom mirror, and the pain that shoots up his arm is the most grounding sensation of all. “I don’t know. Let’s just… Let’s just call the cops.”

They step out of the bathroom, and Dean goes to the phone to do just that. He can deal with this, he tells himself; he can pull himself together. Twice in a row. Twice in a row, but watching Cassie die was so much worse than seeing Bela already dead. Oh God.

“They’re on their way,” Dean announces as he hangs up, and Sam nods, dropping into the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. The reek of death threatens to make him sick all over again.

She’d tried to escape too. If only Detective Castiel hadn’t left this afternoon.

Out of the corner of his eye then, he catches sight of her hand — halfway reaching for her necklace — the key. That’s right — the Grigori would probably want it. He extends his hand, and the chain unclasps to let it float onto his palm before clasping back and returning to its original position. He pockets the key.

“It’s safer with the Grigori,” Dean concurs.

“Yeah.” He rises shakily. He doesn’t think he can take the smell any longer. “I’m going into the room.”

His brother nods. “I’ll call you when the cops get here.”

Sam stares up at the ceiling, white sheets loose around his waist. Dean is sitting on his bed, staring out the window. The College of Hospitality Business runs Rauha Hotel, and the university has put them up here for the number of days the police and decontamination team, respectively, will need to investigate and clean up the crime scene, but he doesn’t know how he’s going to live in the apartment after this. They’ve spoken to the officers, given them as detailed an account of the incident as they can without disclosing that they weren’t human or the existence of the key. Dean just got off the phone with Bobby who called them idjits for sticking around, but Sam’s not leaving. If he drops out, he might not get another chance to finish college.

He’s also not sleeping.

The lights are out, but every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Cassie, her dead eyes wide open with shock, and it doesn’t look like Dean is even trying to sleep. The room smells austere, impersonal, unlived in — as dead as the image that haunts his memory. He’d go for a walk, get some fresh air, but it doesn’t feel safe. Every dark corner looks like it could be concealing a killer, every shadow a spy.

“Oof.”

The breath is knocked from his lungs as Dean flops heavily on him in dog form with a whine, giving him the most baleful green eyes. _Get some sleep, Sammy._

He sighs, burying his hands in soft golden fur. _I’m trying. God knows I need to be awake in class tomorrow._

An ear perks. _You’re still going to class? Oh my God, you’re so friggin’ weird._

 _And you’re so friggin’ heavy,_ he retorts, poking Dean’s sides, glad for the distraction. _What have you been eating lately?_

The dog swats his cheek with a paw. _I haven’t gained a single pound, bitch._

 _Jerk, that means you need to lose a few,_ but the fluffy golden retriever doubles as a blanket and a body pillow, and the warm weight is comforting.

Dean used to sleep on his chest when they were little too. It made the nightmares go away. He closes his eyes, Dean nuzzles his cheek, and he lets the hint of a snore and the familiar scent lull him to sleep.

A tense, somber air has settled about Excolo University. In the wake of the string of murders, now that there are even student victims, and with the killer still at large, the police are everywhere. There are fewer people around, students from afar too terrified to stay, the locals too terrified to leave their homes. The remaining students and lecturers alike walk in groups, hurrying furtively to their destinations.

Vice President Crowley has been quoted in the papers as saying that “these are targeted hits, not random killings, according to the police. Closing won’t stop the killer,” as his reasoning for keeping the university open and running. Sam doesn’t believe it for a moment. The police have confirmed the same, but it is clear from the mostly empty classrooms that few are reassured by these statements.

Most of the faculty have accommodated by recording their lectures to be fair to the students with a keener sense of self-preservation while giving out extra credit to the ones dedicated enough to stay. Sam is grateful for both — it’s hard to focus with the little key in his pocket, and everyone can use extra credit.

The carillon begins tolling for midday as he passes the belltower by the chapel and steps out of the shade of trees into the sun. He’s done with classes for the day, meaning plenty of time for a sit-down lunch. Perhaps he can grab some Chinese t—

Abruptly, a warm hand grabs his and yanks him sideways — into the familiar scent of angel.

“Cas!” he gasps, briefly gripping the other’s arms for balance, then there’s a rush of air nearby and a sharp crack behind him.

The Grigori agent vanishes, and he whirls. No one, no angel, just an oak tree behind him, and that’s probably the crack he heard. Heart racing, he runs over for a closer look — there’s a bullet lodged in the trunk at about the height of his chest.

He could have died mere moments ago, would have if Detective Castiel hadn’t pulled him out of the way.

“She’s gone.”

He jumps as the other reappears suddenly, slumps against the tree when he sees who it is beside him. He could hug the angel in gratitude and relief, but that would be untoward, so he simply says, “Thank you. You saved my life.”

He must have sounded surprised, for the angel tilts his head. “Should I have left an innocent man to die?”

“No! I mean…” He ducks his head. This is probably going to sound presumptuous again. “Doesn’t Grigori doctrine hold that Unsanctioned lives have no value?”

“Tainted,” the other corrects absently, appearing once more to be concentrating on something very far away. “Irredeemably tainted souls don’t hold any value.”

Sam is torn between relief and trepidation — he’s not irredeemably tainted yet, meaning he still has further to fall.

Then Castiel shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I can’t track her. She’s cloaked.”

Cloaked — of course she would be. An assassin targeting non-humans would have to be. Even Bela and Cassie had been cloaked, and they were just thieves. Still… He pauses, takes a deep breath and pulls himself together, lets the strength return to his legs before stepping back and holding out his hand.

“She is,” he agrees as the bullet dislodges itself from the wood and flies into his hand.

He meets a blue gaze, eyes hard. This is personal now — his life is at risk too.

“But perhaps her weapon isn’t.”

Castiel looks from him to the shiny piece of metal in his hand and nods. “Let’s try.”

Sam focuses on the bullet as he says the words of the spell, then drops the match on the map of campus they have laid out on the hotel room's glass coffee table. The entire map burns.

Blue eyes blink at him. “It didn’t work?”

He goes to get the city map from his backpack. “Perhaps they’re not on campus.”

He opens up the city map and tries again. This time, they get a circular piece left unburnt. It’s in the residential area, southeast of where they are.

“There,” he picks up the piece of map, heading for the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Castiel takes his hand to stop him.

He turns. “What is it?”

The angel looks up at him. “This will be dangerous. You need not come with me.”

A part of him wants to say, "Now you care? You drag me into this, and _now_ you're worried about the danger?" Another part of him thinks to insist on going along because Detective Castiel just saved his life, and now this killer really is his problem. Instead, he listens to good sense, hands the map fragment over, and says, "Okay."

To his surprise, the detective squeezes his hand before vanishing in what he’s quite sure now is a beat of feathery wings. He glances at his hand. It’s probably simple reassurance — Castiel had reacted so negatively to the kiss. He doesn’t know where he stands with Castiel — perhaps it’s the absence of suspicion now, but the angel seems different, kinder, almost affectionate at times. Sam shakes his head to clear it — he can’t forget the taste of that kiss, the sweet scent of the other’s desire, but he knows better than to think anything of it.

An angel would never be caught dead with any of the impure, let alone a former Grigori suspect.

It’d be nice though, he thinks — he probably can’t jinx an angel, at least.

He sighs, then looks around at the empty room till he catches sight of the restocked mini bar. Dean is at work, taking extra hours. Sam should be at work, but the administration building hasn’t been reopened. They can’t even cook here. At this rate, they’re going to be desperately broke dreadfully soon. He’s about to make himself a cup of coffee when another rustle of feathers heralds Castiel’s return.

At his questioning look, the detective explains, “The house is warded against angels.”

Just like Bela’s had been, but of course Bela had plenty of reason to be prepared against the Grigori. She probably expected them to show up to search her house for stolen objects at any given moment.

“All right,” he says. “Are you calling Grigori Central for back up?"

"We don't— The agent available would insist on arresting everyone involved, including you, and smiting anyone who resists."

Oh.

There’s a pause, then Castiel adds, "We won’t get to interrogate the killer if we bring in Uriel. He’s an angel too, so he won’t be able to enter the house either, but he can and will flatten it, and everything in it, with a bolt of holy lightning."

"Right." Mentally, Sam chides himself for being silly. “Is it warded against witches?” he blurts, but when his brain catches up, he realizes that the sooner they catch the killer, the sooner he can go back to his normal life, so that's fine.

“No,” but the detective looks uncomfortable and hesitates before continuing. “I can't expect a civilian to get involved, but you are the only one who will help me."

"Well, um...” He scratches his head awkwardly. “You gave me a chance when probably no other Grigori agent would.” Uriel, it seems, would have killed him just for trying to explain. “So what do I do?"

With a small smile, Castiel steps closer and reaches up to touch his brow, then the world seems to slide sideways, and they're suddenly standing in a mostly empty park facing a house with all its curtains drawn shut and no lights on inside. He reflexively grabs hold of Castiel’s shoulders to steady himself as he regains his footing (it feels a little like each part of his body arrived here a millisecond after the previous one, like he’s disjointed somehow, and he’d just been too blown away the first time to notice this sensation), but the angel's attention is focused solely on the house.

“Do you see the glowing sigils on the wall?"

He blinks at the pristine white exterior. “No?"

Castiel looks down then, seeming disappointed. “Oh. Yes. Of course. I forgot."

"Forgot?" Sam shakes his head. “Uh, okay, wait… Let me try something." He takes a deep breath to center himself, then extends his hand towards the house. “Invisitata aperi."

Suddenly, there are a lot more people around than there were only a moment ago, and the wall of the house is covered in strange symbols that glow with an unearthly blue light. The people give them a wide berth, possibly because Castiel is radiating light beside him even under the afternoon sun, and he’s glad for that. He remembers the first time he used this spell. Bobby made sure they were in a protective circle of salt, and even then, he never wanted to use it again. Some places have vengeful spirits, and those are violent, of course, but even ordinary ghosts will flock to you when they realize you can see them. He remembers clinging to Bobby, terrified, as hundreds of pale, horrific-looking people tried to reach for them from across the line of salt, begging him to listen, to help, to save them, pleasepleaseplease—

“Sam?”

Right. _Focus, Sam, focus._ He turns to ask the angel what to do next and gasps. He can see Castiel's wings, huge and majestic with feathers that seem to shift from black to silver depending on the angle, and they're beautiful. He’s reaching out to touch the nearest one without thinking, but his fingers pass right through though they tingle, and the wing seems to flutter.

“Sam…”

 _Ack._ He jerks his hand back. “Sorry.” Turning back to the house and pointedly not looking at the grotesque figures staring hungrily at them, he asks, “Okay, I see them. Now what do I do?”

In the silence that follows, he glances back at Castiel in time to catch the angel looking like he wants to say something before changing his mind to settle on, “I need you to break the sigils on the wall.”

“All right. How?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just scratching a line through them will work.”

“And you couldn’t do that yourself?” he asks incredulously.

Castiel frowns, and Sam is seized by the compulsion to apologize. In hindsight, the wards wouldn’t be terribly effective if angels could just walk up to them and erase them.

“It hurts to go within a certain radius, and none of my powers will work near them,” the detective explains, and now Sam just feels like an awful person.

He ducks his head. “Right. Sorry. Uh…” He looks around for something he can use. Perhaps a sharp stone would work.

“Here,” the angel says before he can find a suitable piece, and he looks up to see the other holding out a blade like nothing he’s ever seen before. “Use this.” It’s made wholly of some kind of metal, flawlessly shiny like platinum, yet light as plastic when he takes it in his hand. Castiel seems reluctant to let it go, however — he hesitates before releasing it and retracting his hand. Perhaps letting someone else, _someone impure_ , use it is forbidden, taints the blade somehow in some identifiable way.

“Okay,” he’ll try to make this quick then. It’s probably safer not to go any nearer, so he moves it to the wall with his mind and uses it to etch a thin groove through a row of sigils. It’s easier than he expected — the blade is extremely sharp. The row he’s stricken out stops glowing, and he quickly gets to work on the rest. The blade flies back into his hand when he’s done, and he turns to hand it back, only to have the other take a big step back out of range, staring warily at it.

Oh. _Oh._ He’s floored suddenly. Humbled and touched. “Thank you.” He turns the blade to offer it hilt first. “For trusting me,” of all people, with a blade that can kill angels.

Castiel takes it and turns towards the house, then halts. “You’re welcome.” He seems to hesitate before looking back and meeting Sam’s eyes. “I… have seen into your soul, Sam Winchester. You are…” He searches for the correct word. “…beautiful. It is how I know you are innocent. The sin of murder is one that taints the soul irreversibly.”

Sam stares into sincere blue eyes, stunned. Him? _Beautiful?_ He opens his mouth, but no words come.

Fortunately, he is spared from potentially embarrassing himself by the detective vanishing, presumably into the house. In the absence of the angel’s light, the surrounding figures whirl on him, and he quickly mumbles, “Paueto,” as he backs into the nearest tree. Birch, it smells like. They disappear as the magic is dispelled, and he sighs in relief. No salt circle this time, and he doesn’t want to know what that’s like.

“I gotta hand it you, finding me out here so quickly.”

He whirls, looking for the source of the voice behind him. A blonde steps out from behind a few trees, tapping a dagger on her palm. She’s wearing a dark red leather jacket and form-fitting black leather pants, and in a matching black leather holster on her right hip, there is a gun. It doesn’t take more than an instant to put it together.

“You!” He backs away from her, looking for some form of defense, some way to protect himself. He can’t panic, not now. “What’s your deal? Why are you killing people?”

She grins. “Just doing my job.”

Shit. There’s no cover in this park of sparse trees and open space. “So now you’re here to finish it?”

“Calm down.” She chuckles, flips her long wavy hair over her shoulder. “If I were, we wouldn’t be standing here talking.”

No, she’s right. She could have shot him as soon as Castiel left. “So why aren’t you?”

“Because you’re tall. I love a tall man. And then there’s that bit about you having something I want.”

“Something you want?” He scoffs. “Like what? I’m having trouble just getting enough food for next week.”

The assassin steps closer, and he catches a whiff of sulphur in the air as his blood pounds in his ears. Perhaps he can get a spell off before she can shoot him, exorcise her before she can kill any more people. No, an exorcism would take too long. He’d never complete it in time. His heart races. There must be something.

“Yeah, I could kill for some fries, but I’m a patient girl. I can wait. So here’s the thing, tall, dark and handsome. I get a target, I off him, I think it’ll be a sweet vacation till my next job, but no. The next day, I get a new target. Fine. I off her, then her dog sees me, so I have to put the dog down.”

He keeps backing away, closer to the house, closer to Castiel. Maybe the angel will see him; maybe he’ll come help. Only a seasoned assassin could talk so casually about killing people, like she was just ticking some checkboxes on a standard form.

“Next thing I know, I get another target. Three in a row, all from the same employer, but separately. Like they didn’t know they wanted you dead till the last one was. So I did a little digging of my own. Word on the street tells me they want something, something that should have fallen into their hands when the targets died, but didn’t. So now, they know it’s with you.”

“They? Who’s they?”

“I don’t know.”

He arches a disbelieving eyebrow as he backs through the gate into the house’s front yard.

“I honestly don’t know. It’s an anonymous industry. Anyway, if I kill you now, your dog is just going to give that prize to your angelic boyfriend in there, which means a no-win for everybody. So how about it? You give me what you snitched from our late sister’s pet, I let you live, and everybody goes home happy?”

“What I—”

“Aaghh!!!”

The killer glows as she’s stabbed from behind and crumples, sliding off a blade to the ground with a sick squelch to reveal Castiel standing behind her, expressionless. He can’t look away from the unnatural position her body is frozen in as her gun and dagger fly into the detective’s hands. Wide-eyed and skin clammy with cold sweat, staccato breaths loud in the deathly silence, he scurries back as the angel advances on him. Seeing Sam’s terror, Castiel stops, and his blade seems to vanish with a flick of his wrist.

“Sam?”

He flinches, and the other’s expression grows chagrined.

“I apologize. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

The Grigori are killers too, efficient and ruthless. He’d heard, of course, but to see it— And the stench of sulphur and blood all around. Again. _Again._ He stumbles, but doesn’t fall. Castiel is holding him up with a firm grip on his upper arms, and when he blinks, he’s back in his hotel room.

_Oh God._

The flying amplifies his nausea, and it’s too much. He clamps a hand over his mouth and jerks away to dash into the bathroom, then he’s retching violently into the toilet bowl again, only his stomach is empty this time, so it’s straight burning bile and water, and now that the shock has passed, he feels hopelessly pathetic. If only it were true that Alphas had stronger stomachs — perhaps it is, and he’s the exception. When nothing more will come up, when even dry heaving takes too much energy, he wipes his mouth, sits on the marble floor with his back to the cold wall and closes his eyes, hating the déjà vu.

“I’m sorry.”

He cracks open an eye. The detective is standing at the entrance to the bathroom, his eyes trained on the floor with a look of deep regret.

“I feared she was going to kill you, that my carelessness in leaving you alone out there would prove fatal.”

He feels bad too — he hadn’t meant to react so poorly; he knows Castiel wouldn’t hurt him. “I thought you wanted to interrogate her.” His voice comes out weak and hoarse.

Castiel shakes his head, still not looking at him. “She’s a demon assassin. Even if she knew anything, nothing we could do would make her spill. Her weapons are enough to prove she killed Edward Hazel, Bela Talbot and Cassie Robinson. And I’d already extracted enough from the one inside.”

“Inside?”

The angel hesitates. “You called him Brady.”

He stiffens.

Brady, his classmate twice last year, dead. They’d even worked on a few assignments together. He’d never thought… well. He doesn’t want to think about Castiel interrogating the Beta to death.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says again. “He was a demon. I know not since when, but the human you knew, if indeed you met him, was long dead.”

He doesn’t know which is worse, but he only takes long, deep breaths to pull himself together. He can’t focus on that, not now when his life is at stake. “I saw him just the day before. He was walking with Vice President Crowley and a blonde I didn’t recognize.”

Here, the detective finally looks at him. “He said got his orders from, in his words, ‘some bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone else just because she’s some big shot’s daughter.’ Perhaps that is the girl you speak of? He honestly didn’t know where to find her, however, so it may be that she finds him.”

He nods. “And Vice President Crowley?”

“He didn’t say. But he did reveal that he has been looking for a book and a key. For what or whom, he didn’t know. He also doesn’t know who else is after the same, but he’s positive they exist.”

The key! That’s right! With everything that had been going on, he’d forgotten all about it!

He climbs to his feet unsteadily, and the other steps back, gives him a wide berth. “I forgot to tell you.” He leans against the wall for support and digs around in his jeans pocket. “Here.” He drops the small, ornate metal key into Castiel’s hand when the angel approaches. “Cassie, Bela’s familiar? Before she…” He swallows, steels himself, presses on. “She brought this to us, looking for you. She thought Bela was killed for this, too. And just now, the assassin, she said I had something she wanted. Maybe this is it; this is the key. And Bela was quite sure the book was in the library’s Special Collections room. That’s why she was there. But she had to leave before she could find it, and… well.”

The angel looks down at the piece of metal in his hand, inspecting it closely. “You were wise to keep this for me, Sam.” He looks up, meeting olive eyes. “You said Special Collections?”

Staring at the many shelves of books in Special Collections storage, Sam realizes that the one-way glass wall isn’t even that. Unlike the rest of the library, it’s been boarded up to preserve the collection — the lighting, temperature and humidity in the room is controlled. It just made no difference to the charm he used on the sunglasses.

“I hope it is uncommon for books to take keys,” Castiel says quietly at his side.

“It is,” Sam assures him, but that’s still way too many books to search. “Could I borrow the key for a moment?”

The angel doesn’t hesitate to hand it over, and he focuses on it as he fishes his pendulum out of his pocket, asking it to lead him to the key’s match. After several moments, the green gem swings to the upper left, and he follows the direction it indicates past several shelves as the pendulum slowly shifts to point due left. Now that they’ve found the right shelf, Sam and Castiel decide to search through the books one row at a time. Realizing that the detective can’t reach the top two rows, Sam begins from the top right and Castiel from the bottom left. Sam makes a mental note to request some books from here someday — there are so many rare books he wants to read among this collection.

When they meet in the middle, they nearly bump into each other, and Sam is suddenly overwhelmed by that exquisite scent in their proximity.

 _Shit._ He nearly trips over himself backing away, and all but runs to the end of the row to resume his search before the detective can ask him what’s wrong. Dean would say he needs to get laid. Or at least clean the pipes. But the former might get someone killed, and the latter… if he gives in to the fantasy, things will only get more awkward. It’s not a good idea.

Just then, his cellphone buzzes. It’s Dean. “Got Chinese for dinner,” reads the text, and he grins. Just as well he missed lunch then. Then he realizes it’s six.

“What is it?” Castiel asks quietly from beside him, and he nearly jumps.

“I need to get back,” he says, turning to face the other as he slips his phone back into his pocket. Dean needs to know everything that’s happened, that some people believe they have something worth killing for, and he’ll be upset if dinner gets cold now that they don’t have a microwave.

The angel doesn’t question it. “I will take you there then and return here to continue searching.”

He nods, and Castiel touches his brow lightly, then they’re back in his hotel room, and Dean jumps.

“Jesus, Sammy!”

They appeared right behind him, and he whirls on them.

“What’s he doing here?”

Castiel opens his mouth to answer, but Sam hurriedly interjects with, “He saved my life, Dean.”

That makes Dean take a second. “What the hell?”

“The assassin that killed Cassie?” He smiles thinly. “She tried to kill me today.”

This seems to spur his brother into motion. “Okay, that’s it. Bobby’s right. This is nuts.” He goes around grabbing things and shoving them into a duffle. “Pack up, Sammy. We’re getting the hell out of dodge.”

“No, wait, wait. She’s dead, Dean.”

The blond stops. “What?”

“He killed her.” Sam tilts his head towards Castiel who nods in confirmation.

There’s a long pause, then, “Okay.” Dean sets the bag down and goes to unpack their dinner. “Okay, you’re telling me everything.”

“So if we run, they will come after us,” he finishes, swallowing a spoonful of beef lo mein.

There’s a beat of silence before Dean replies, “Or you’re just saying that because not dropping out of college is more important than your life.”

Sam opens his mouth to retort, but Castiel beats him to it. “No, your brother is right. Demons will not rest just because you’ve left this town.” To be honest, Sam’s a little surprised Castiel stayed through the whole story after saying he’d just drop Sam off earlier.

“You know what?” Dean turns on the detective. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”

Castiel squints, confused. “What is a peanut gallery?”

Instead of explaining, Dean points an accusing finger. “You dragged Sammy into this mess, so you get him out of it, you hear me?”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “D—”

“No, you don’t get a vote on this.”

“I will try,” Castiel promises solemnly, rising. “After today, they will know that the Grigori are involved. I will keep the key and continue searching for the book to solve this case. I pray that this leads the perpetrators away from you.” Then he vanishes, presumably to return to the library.

Dean crosses his arms, looking pleased with himself, and turns to Sam. “And you stay out of this, got it?”

Sam sighs as he stands, rolling his eyes and getting his Philosophy textbook from his backpack before stretching out on his bed to open it. “I didn’t want in to begin with.”


	4. Chapter 3

With a quiz, two assignments, a presentation and a problem set all due in the same week, Sam is exhausted come Friday. He’s glad for the lack of distraction — no work, no investigation, no attempts on his life. The only other thing he’s had to do is move back into the apartment. There’s no sign of the murder that happened there — the decontamination team the landlord hired did an excellent job. He still did a purification ritual once they finished bringing in their things though, just to clear the energy in the place. He won’t forget the scene anytime soon, but at the very least, he isn’t getting nightmares.

Students are slowly coming back to classes, and there are more people on campus this week. The police are still on high alert, regularly patrolling the university and the surrounding city, but the overall panic seems to be dying down. The administration building will reopen on Monday, which means he can finally return to work. He’s relieved — even as thrifty as they are and with the help of the local food bank, they won’t last much longer without the secondary income.

Intermediate Latin is still a sombre affair though — no one will take Bela and Cassie’s usual seats, and staring at the two vacant chairs… Sarah, who often chatted to them, had to excuse herself on Monday as she fled the classroom in tears, and even Professor Løkse has gone easy on them lately in an attempt to lift the dismal mood.

It’s been a full week since he heard anything from Detective Castiel, which is probably good news. Perhaps the angel has solved the case and returned to the Grigori.

Sometimes though, he still feels like he’s being watched, and he hopes it’s not another killer. Sometimes, he half expects someone to appear out of nowhere as he rounds a corner, and he’s not so relieved when no one does. Sometimes, he wakes to a flash of blue, and he’s not sure it’s just a trick of the light.

As he passes the library after calculus recitation, he remembers the Special Collections storage room, and suddenly, he needs to know. If the detective is not there, he reasons, he can probably stop worrying that he might get killed and move on.

Walking into the library, he’s glad to see the crowd hasn’t picked up yet. It’s still far from crunch time, so it’s nowhere nearly as packed as it gets circa finals week. Still, the library cafe is always open, making it a popular place for all-nighters and group work meetings, so he’s probably going to need a bit of help sneaking into the right room unnoticed.

“Imperspicuus,” he mumbles as he heads towards the room in the slightly less crowded section. He can’t avoid being seen, but he can certainly avoid being remembered.

No one even turns to look as he punches the code in and slips through the door into the heady scent of old books — parchment, leather, even vellum and various types of ink. It’s pitch dark inside today, and he gropes the wall blindly for a light switch. “Detective? Castiel?” he whispers as he finally finds and flicks it.

Bright light floods the room, and he blinks against the glare to find Castiel standing right in front of him.

He jumps, startled, almost knocks a bookcase over. “Jesus, Cas!” he hisses, trying to steady the shelf. “Say something at least!” The other is just staring unnervingly at him, silent and too close for comfort.

“Sam.” Castiel tilts his head, confused. “Why are you here?”

“I—I uh…” He hadn’t really expected to find anyone. “I was just passing by, and I was wondering if the case has been closed yet because I still feel like I’m being watched sometimes, but I guess if you’re still here, then…” He stops himself — he’s rambling. And the detective is still just staring silently at him — way to make him feel thrice as awkward. “You didn’t find the book then?”

Castiel looks down in chagrin. “No. I searched the whole room. There is no book here that takes a key.”

“I’m sorry.” He feels bad somehow. “That’s all Cassie told me. I wish I had more information.”

The angel shakes his head. “You need not apologize. You have been extremely cooperative.”

Still, Sam heads towards the shelf that the pendulum led him to, pensive. He’d used the key to scry for its matching lock. There’s no reason it should be wrong, unless there was a concealment spell of sorts. But if Castiel has searched the whole room, it rules that out. Perhaps the book was never here, and Bela, too, was misled by a concealment spell?

He scans the rows of books lined up neatly, some older than others, with various designs and typefaces adorning their spines. Or have they been looking for the wrong thing all along?

“Could I see the key again?”

For a moment, Castiel seems to hesitate, then thinks better of it. “Here.” He presses the small silver piece into Sam’s hand. His fingers are warm, his nails neatly trimmed, and they linger — like Castiel doesn’t want to let go, whether of the key or Sam’s hand, the witch doesn’t want to ponder.

He inspects the key, looking closely at the ornate shape of the bow and its carvings. “Maybe it’s not a keyhole we’re looking for.”

Blue eyes widen as he holds up the key, and they both scan the rows of books again, paying closer attention now. It’s Castiel who first reaches for a book: a 1667 edition of Milton’s _Paradise Lost,_ possibly from the first print run, bound in dark leather and gilded with gold motifs.

The motifs match the shape of the bow.

The detective glances at him before opening it. Inside, fitted securely in a compartment created by gluing all the pages together and cutting out a rectangle in the middle, is a book with a lock that takes a key. The angel smiles and holds it out to him. He inserts the key into the keyhole and turns. It unlocks with a click, and they exchange a look of victorious elation.

“Good stuff, Castiel. I see you’ve found the book.”

They turn to find a balding, portly man in a grey suit smiling at them. Something about him rubs Sam the wrong way, but he says nothing as Castiel inclines his head in deference.

“Zachariah.”

Perhaps he’s Castiel’s superior in the Grigori.

The middle-aged man with white hair turns to Sam then. “You are a witch?”

“Yes,” Sam answers hesitantly. The disdain is thinly veiled, and he can only hope no disaster strikes.

“I see big things in your future, son. You should get sanctioned.”

“Yes, uh… I was considering that after I graduate.”

Zachariah nods. “Where’s your coven?”

“I don’t have one.” Bobby doesn’t either, and growing up with him, Sam hadn’t even heard the term until he was sixteen.

“There is no need to protect them, you know.”

“No, I really don’t have one.”

Zachariah frowns and lifts his hand. “Maybe final stage laryngeal cancer will teach you not to lie.”

Sam gasps, hands flying to his throat as he sinks to one knee. His throat hurts, and it’s hard to breathe. Castiel angles his body in front of Sam.

“He’s telling the truth, Zachariah. I checked.”

“Oh.” Zachariah waves his hand, and the pain goes away. “Well, do you know any other witches?”

“Not here,” Sam answers bitterly as he lets Castiel help him up. “Back home in South Dakota.”

“With all due respect,” Castiel interrupts. “Why do you ask?”

“We need three witches to perform the spell in that book.”

Castiel tilts his head. “There are witches in the Grigori. Why involve unsanctioned civilians?”

“They will not be back from active duty for a while, and time is of the essence.”

Suddenly, they hear the sound of a librarian punching in the code for the door, and they’ve relocated to the forest outside the library in the blink of an eye. It is evening, and the forest is deserted.

“What spell?”

“Castiel, I am utterly through with your questions.” Zachariah turns to Sam. “Now, we will go to South Dakota, and you will call your witch friends, or you will wish you’d taken Ruby’s deal.”

“Deal?” Sam blinks, lost, then it clicks. “With the assassin?”

The senior angel moves towards him, but Castiel intercepts. “There is no way you could have known the assassin’s name.”

Zachariah smiles pleasantly. “What do you mean, Castiel? I’ve been watching you all this while, and I must say I’m pleased with what I’ve seen.”

“None of us knew her name was Ruby. Why are you here, really? You’re not one to visit Earth unnecessarily.”

A glint catches Sam’s eye then, a flash of metal in Zachariah’s hand, and he dives forward to barrel into the older man. “No!!!”

He’s flung away, but Castiel too has drawn his angel blade, and the two angels begin fighting as he slams into a tree. “Agh!” Pain flares through his body, and he doesn’t slide to the ground. When he looks down, he sees the blood-covered branch protruding from his torso, and it seems to amplify the pain tenfold. He makes a sound of pain as the angels continue to cross blades, the clang of metal on metal loud in the silence of the forest.

He needs help. _They_ need help.

 _Dean._ He reaches out with his mind. They’re nowhere nearly close enough to communicate telepathically, but if he can reach his brother, just a little… _Dean!_

There! A spark, right at the edge of their connection. “Dean,” he gasps. “Me sequare!”

For several moments, there’s nothing but the two angels, evenly matched in their battle, Zachariah saying things he can’t make out, and he can’t hear Castiel’s voice at all. Then there’s a pop beside him as Dean materializes.

“Sammy!” The blond runs over. “Sammy, Sammy, stay with me, oh God. You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get you to a hospital, all right?”

“No,” he breathes with effort, shaking his head. “Help him.” He points at Castiel.

Dean glances in that direction and turns back to him. “What?! Seriously?! What the hell’s wrong with you, man?! You’re d—”

“No.” _The other guy, he hired the killer. If he survives, he’ll come after us._

“Argh…” Dean looks between Sam and the two angels. “Goddammit, Sammy. Don’t you die on me!” he runs toward them, morphing into dog form as he goes.

For once, Sam’s really glad for his height — at least his feet reach the ground. Dean attacks Zachariah only to get flung away too, but he quickly picks himself up with a growl as soon as he hits the ground. He watches more carefully this time though, circles to look for an opening, as Sam fights to stay conscious. Castiel is pressing the assault, backing Zachariah through the trees. Sam focuses on the ground behind the senior angel. There must be tree roots under there.

“Nouskaa,” he whispers with the last of his strength.

Some tree roots rise out of the ground, and as Zachariah steps back, parrying a blow from Castiel, he trips. Dean seizes his chance, and the force of his attack sends the angel slamming into Castiel’s angel blade. A brilliant light radiates briefly from the older man’s body, then he falls limply to the side and the smell of burnt flesh fills the air.

“Sammy!” Dean is back beside him in an instant, once again in human form, and Castiel quickly joins him. “Stay with me, all right? You’re gonna be okay.”

Together, they lift him off the branch, and the pain almost blacks him out, but then suddenly, it’s gone, and he’s warm — like a pleasant heat is suffusing his body. He blinks several times to clear his vision. Dean and Castiel are holding him up, and the angel has a hand pressed to the wound in his abdomen… that is no longer there.

“Cas,” he wheezes softly, and the detective squeezes his hand, looking troubled.

“We have to hide now,” Castiel says softly, pressing his hand to Sam and Dean’s chests.

“What th—”

The shock of searing pain in his ribs is his body’s limit, and the world quickly fades to black.

Sam wakes to the stained white ceiling of his bedroom, the taste of plaque lining his mouth. He feels exhausted, somehow, but there is no pain. From the daylight streaming in through the window, it must be late morning.

Lord, he hopes it’s a weekend.

Hauling himself out of bed with a groan, he drags himself to the door, opening it to the familiar sounds and smells of Dean in the kitchen — sizzling bacon. He doesn’t doubt Dean could live on nothing but bacon and cherry pie. Dean comes out with a plate of said bacon, some eggs and toast and stops.

“Whoa, look who’s up.” His brother sets the plate down on the table, comes over to grab him by the shoulders and shake him a little. Like he will dissipate if Dean doesn’t make sure he’s solid. “You okay there, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Yeah.” He nods, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “Yeah. How long have I been out?”

Dean claps his shoulders lightly. “About eighteen hours.”

Oh good. That means it’s Saturday, and he hasn’t missed any classes. He sighs in relief.

“You should eat something.” His brother nudges him in the direction of the table before heading back towards the kitchen. “Sit down and eat your breakfast.”

Suddenly famished, Sam sits down gratefully and nibbles on a piece of toast as he waits for Dean to join him at the table. He doesn’t have long to wait.

“So,” Dean opens as they begin eating in earnest. “Anything you want to tell me about yesterday?”

Sam shrugs. “Looks like the Grigori commissioned the murders. This is big, Dean. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

“You told me you’d stay out of this!” The other drops his fork to point an accusing finger. “What the fuck were you even doing there, huh?!”

“Dude, I still felt like we were being followed, all right? I just wanted to check if the case was over.”

“Right. So you go straight for the WMD and stick around for the explosion?! You know who does that, Sammy? Crazy people!”

“D—”

“So what, are you _crazy_ crazy or just thinking with your knot?”

“What?” He feels the color rising in his cheeks. “I—”

“Oh no.” Dean’s voice drops into quiet horror. “Oh no, no, no. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wasn’t even expecting to find him there!”

“But you were hoping.” It’s not even a question, and Dean’s expression all but screams, “Kill me now.”

“Yeah, for an answer!”

“Oh, so if the chance came up, you wouldn’t?”

Sam scowls at the hypocrisy. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

“Hey, I like leggy brunettes. Don’t give me that bitchface.”

For a moment, Sam contemplates pointing out that both he and Castiel fit that description, but then his phone starts playing the refrain for Brian McKnight’s Back At One — a text message. He fishes it out and freezes, eyes wide.

It— It can’t be.

Castiel said Brady is dead… or isn’t he?

‘Be careful,’ it reads. ‘The sigils will hide you, but everyone is searching. They may be watching. Trust no one. C.’

_Sigils? Wait, C? As in Castiel? But then why does he— Oh._

“Who is it?” Dean asks.

“Just a friend.” _It’s Detective Castiel telling us to be careful because people may be watching us._

“Yeah?” Dean spears a piece of bacon more forcefully with his fork, but plays along. _And whose fault is that, huh? He drags you into this mess, and now all he can do is hide us and tell us to watch our backs?_

 _Well, he did keep the other angel from killing me yesterday._ “Yeah, just a class thing.” In reply, he types, ‘Got it. What will you do?’

 _Yes, and that wins him all the points in the world._ Dean grunts noncommittally and keeps eating. “Just what’s got you so hung up on him anyway?”

“I’m n—” Well, okay. Maybe he is. Just a little.

Maybe it’s the angel thing, a bit of hero worship, some leftover sense of wonder. Before, when he prayed, he imagined angels as beautiful and shining, merciful and just, and the stories he heard of the Grigori crushed his hopes and dreams. But Castiel listened, gave him a chance instead of writing him off as unclean like he’d heard the angels do, like Zachariah had. He’d even chosen to save Sam instead of siding with his angelic superior. Whether out of justice or affection, he gives Sam hope, hope that salvation may await, that his childhood beliefs and ideals are not all lies.

And God, but he tastes and smells Heavenly.

He’s also attractive, knowledgeable and endearingly awkward.

Yes, all right, Sam concedes, he’s smitten. He’ll admit it. And if Castiel has seen into his tainted soul and called him beautiful, then maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance for them yet.

“Some kind of Stockholm Syndrome?”

Okay, fine. That’s a legitimate possibility too.

“I don’t know,” he says at last because explaining is too difficult.

Dean wipes both hands over his face. “Why’d’you always gotta go for the dangerous types, huh?”

Sam’s message tone goes off again, and he silently reads, ‘We must find out what everyone is after if we hope to see an end to all this. I will try to decipher the book.’

We, says Castiel, and Sam rather likes the sound of it now. Christ, he’s a goner. ‘Do you need any help?’ he asks before returning his attention to Dean. “Jess wasn’t dangerous,” he points out.

“We don’t know that,” his brother counters.

They never figured out why or how the fire happened, whether it was accident or arson, whether Jess or Sam had been the intended target. Probably Jess, since if they’d been after Sam, they would have tried again. But it’s too much like how Sam’s mother died, and after John never came back, Dean and Bobby wouldn’t let Sam search for answers either. He’d like to know, of course, but risking his life to find an answer wouldn’t bring his first mate back, and he’d listened to good sense in the end. Later, he’d tried to move on, hoping time and new love would heal the gaping wound burnt into him by the severed bond, but then…

“Becky wasn’t dangerous.”

Dean only raises an eyebrow.

Fine. _Fine._ He sighs. “Look, I don’t pick them because they’re dangerous, Dean.”

“No!” the blond agrees, lifting his hands in surrender. “That’s the problem, Sammy! It comes quite naturally to you!”

“Well, at least this one tries to keep me alive,” he retorts, and Dean shakes his head, taking their empty plates to the kitchen instead.

‘Do you read Sumerian?’ comes the next message.

‘No,’ he replies. ‘Sorry. I wish I did.’

‘Then stay safe.’

That probably means stay away, but he’s glad for the choice of phrasing. ‘You too,’ he sends just as Dean comes back out, running a hand through his hair.

“Look. Just… Stay safe, all right? Let me protect you. It’s always been my job, you know? Ain’t nobody had to tell me. I can’t take another round of last night, man. There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.”

“I know, and I will.” He lets his brother pull him out of the chair and help him back to their room with a slight chuckle. “I don’t think I can take another round of last night either.”

“Not funny.” Dean smacks him before bodily pushing him into bed in dog form.

He ruffles his dog’s fluffy golden coat. “No chick flick moments, right?”

Dean swats him, and he laughs. _Don’t make me lick your face._

With work starting up again and college getting back into full swing, Sam finds himself too busy for much else. At least the professors seem to be warming up to him after the first assignments, so he hopes it’s a sign that they’ve come to terms with him being here on an academic rather than athletic scholarship. Still, this is no time to be losing steam.

Sometimes though, he finds himself thinking of Castiel, wondering how the angel is doing. They’ve exchanged a few messages, and it seems the going is slow. He supposes, if the book hides something worth killing and dying for, then it probably wouldn’t be so easy to decrypt.

It’s Sunday today though, and he’s just finished the assignments due next week. He supposes he could start on the next batch of reading and assignments, but instead, he’s standing in the park in front of that white house. All trace of the altercation with Ruby is gone, the house looks otherwise just as he remembered, and nothing seems out of the ordinary in nondescript suburbia. It’s a little further away than he expected, but still a manageable walk.

He hopes he’s right as he walks up to the door and knocks. For a long time, there is nothing, and he’s about to leave when the door opens, and a hand darts out to snag his hand and pull him inside.

“Cas!” he manages just as the angel quickly closes the door behind him.

“Why have you come here?”

He’s glad Castiel doesn’t ask him how he knows, that the angel counts him intelligent enough to have figured it out, but he doesn’t have an answer to this either. It’s not like he has an excuse this time.

“I um…” He scratches his head, nervous. “I just wanted to know how you were doing. I mean, you know, in person.”

To his relief, Castiel smiles instead of telling him not to be silly. “I’m fine, Sam. But you shouldn’t have come. It is safer for you.”

Still, the angel doesn’t ask him to leave, just heads back towards the living room. The house is sparsely furnished, the wooden fixtures and fittings a little dusty. It smells musty and a bit smoky, of red oak and vellum — and of Castiel, but he’s going to try to ignore that. There’s a staircase leading upstairs and an arch separates the dining area from the kitchen, but the undisturbed layer of dust on the floor indicates neither of those areas have been visited. Used candles line the coffee table by the black couch, and the book lies open on it beside a messy stack of papers. The papers look to be filled with calligraphy, and the uncapped pen indicates that they’re Castiel’s handwritten notes.

“Your handwriting is beautiful,” he remarks without thinking as he moves closer for a better look, and Castiel sits down on the couch.

“Once,” the angel says softly, “everyone who could write wrote like this.”

“You mean in Antiquity?”

“Yes. You have walked a long way. Will you not sit?”

Sam sits down beside him and stares at the book, feeling small. Castiel is ancient, ageless. What is he, but a blip in the angel’s eternal time? Indicating the papers, he asks, “What does the book say?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I am fluent in Sumerian from my time in Mesopotamia, but I’m afraid the text makes very little sense.”

Sam considers the book for a moment, then says, “Perhaps that is the problem.”

Blue eyes give him a quizzical look.

“I mean, this book was probably written in, at the very earliest, the Middle Ages, right? Would anyone in that time have as good a command of Sumerian as you do? Perhaps…” He searches for an example. “Perhaps, for instance, it is Akkadian written in the Sumerian system.”

His words are greeted by contemplative silence, and he hopes they didn’t sound foolish. To distract himself, he fishes out the PB&J he packed for lunch but never got around to eating.

“That… is not possible,” comes the reply at length, and his heart sinks. “Sumerian and Akkadian are very different structurally. However, you may have the correct idea. I will read it again later to see if some mistakes could have impaired the meaning. What is that?” The angel is looking at his sandwich.

“Oh. Oh um… It’s a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich.” He looks down at it, then holds out the other half. “It’s quite good. Would you like to try it?”

For a moment, Castiel looks like he will decline, then he hesitantly reaches for it and gazes at it in his hand, seeming at once curious and apprehensive. At length, he gingerly takes a bite and chews, and his expression morphs into some mix of relief and disappointment.

“It’s… overwhelming,” he offers in the face of Sam’s expectant look. “I can taste every molecule.”

“Oh.” That doesn’t sound very tasty.

“And yet…” The angel looks wistful now, a little worried. “The day may soon come when I can taste it as you do.”

Sam doesn’t know what that means or how to respond, so he merely continues eating his PB&J quietly. Castiel, too, says nothing, gazing pensively at the book on the table, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward, and for that, Sam is glad.

Finally, Castiel glances at the half a sandwich he is holding again, then turns to Sam. “I seem to have wasted half your lunch.” He reaches into his pocket. “Here.” He presses… over a thousand dollars into Sam’s hand. “You should take this.”

“Wh—what?” Wide-eyed, Sam pulls his hand away. “But a PB&J only costs a few bucks!”

“No.” The angel catches his hand and insistently folds his fingers around the bills. “Allies of the Grigori are paid well for their services. You deserve to be compensated for your assistance.”

He shakes his head. “I—I didn’t do it for money.”

Castiel inclines his. “And for all the trouble caused by your being wrongly accused.”

Still shaking his head, Sam continues to try to pull away. “No, no, this is… I can’t take this. Where did you get all this money anyway?”

“I withdrew my entire mission allowance before they froze the accounts.”

“Then you’ll need it, won’t you? Now that you can’t go back?”

The angel smiles. “I have yet to find any use for it, and this isn’t all I have.”

“Cas, I— This is too much. I haven’t even thanked you for saving my life several times and— and for believing in me when you had no reason to.”

Castiel’s smile turns wry. “You forget Zachariah would have gotten the jump on me had you not nearly died trying to stop him.” He lets go of Sam’s hands, allows the witch to return the wad of cash. “It is… uplifting to be with you, Sam.” Blue eyes meet olive. “Most of our Allies, they care not what we do. They care only that we pay well and quickly, and of course we do, for Father taught us that it is poor character to remain indebted unnecessarily, and yet…” He sighs, looking away. “So many say they worship God or some other deity, when in truth, the only thing they worship are these… green pieces of paper.” He scatters the money on the couch between them with disdain. “Naturally, it is fair to remunerate people for their services. However, I wish more people had the correct intentions.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam wishes things were different too — Castiel’s disappointment makes him sad.

“No, I should apologize. I have troubled you with my trifling complaints long enough.” The angel rises. “It is growing late. Will your brother not… start a riot?”

Sam laughs, standing as well. “I should be going, yes.” He walks to the door, Castiel following close behind. “Thank you for letting me in.”

The other shakes his head, smiling wistfully. “It is safer for you to stay away from me, and yet, I should like to talk with you again. Perhaps we can use this?”

He holds out Brady’s old cellphone, and the thought of Brady — Sam resolutely pushes it away. This is no time to dwell on bygones. “Sure, I’ll call you.”

“The voice said I’m almost out of minutes though.” He looks at the phone ruefully, and Sam chuckles.

“Well, I guess you’ve found a use for that money now. You can buy more minutes.”

“How?”

“Well, you go to a store, and— you know what? Never mind. I’ll take care of it this time and explain it all to you the next time I swing by?”

Castiel nods. “I’ll just wait here then. Take care that you are not followed.”

“I will, I promise.”

Sam lets himself out, closes the door behind him while Castiel hangs back, out of sight. It’s hard to walk normally, to hide the spring in his step. It feels like a date. He hasn’t felt so giddily happy in a while. He almost manages not to skip all the way home, barely succeeds at schooling his face out of the cheery grin it seems to have frozen into before he walks in the door.

“Hey, S— I guess you don’t need dinner anymore, huh? You are so stuffed with pink hearts and glitter, dude, it makes me puke in my mouth a little.” _You just went to see that detective again._ Not a question — it doesn’t fool Dean.

He drops his backpack into the armchair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s for dinner?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Stew. Enough cayenne pepper in there to burn your lips off, just like you love it.”

“You know, Dean, I wish you’d make a salad every once in a while.”

The blond grimaces as he walks out with two bowls of stew, and Sam fishes his wallet out to set it on the coffee table.

Eleven crumpled greenbacks fall out with it to the floor.

“What the—”

“Hey! Where’d you get all this moolah?” Dean darts over to pick the bills up.

Sam groans as it hits him. _Detective Castiel…_

“Huh.” His brother counts them with a wide grin. “Now _this_ is a boyfriend worth having, Sammy. Atta boy!” _Guess he’s as decent as his feathery ass._

“Dean!!” Sam gives him his strongest disapproving glare.

“What?” _Don’t worry, Sammy. Your ass is still the finest._ “This is over two months’ rent, dude. This means I can afford to get the latest Casa Erotica!”

This time, Sam just throws his spoon at the blond’s back, takes his dinner with the other spoon into the room, and slams the door.

Sam bought Castiel minutes, and they talk on the phone every few days. No progress has been made with the book, but sometimes the angel tells him stories from far away or long ago, and he explains some aspect of human life to the other. He looks forward to these phone calls and especially to his weekly visits. He’s been careful, using magic to make sure he isn’t followed, and even Dean has given up reminding him of the danger in the face of the constant cloud of elation about him as Castiel and he grow closer.

This week, though, Castiel hasn’t called on the usual Tuesday, and he worries. When he doesn’t get a call by the end of classes on Thursday, he’s so anxious, he hails a cab instead of walking. Even the few minutes’ drive seems like forever, and he prays nothing bad has happened even as every worst case scenario runs through his mind. There is no way he can wait till Sunday, even if he doesn’t know what help he can be if anyone has found Castiel. He hopes it isn’t his fault, that some small moment of carelessness hasn’t caused some disaster, and he’s terrified of what he’ll find even as the cab drives away, and he walks briskly past two houses to turn onto the correct street before running the rest of the way. His heart thumping, a part of him wants to kick the door in when he reaches it, but he stops.

It could be nothing. Maybe Castiel just got busy, reached some breakthrough with the book.

He knocks.

And waits.

His anxiety grows as the seconds pass.

He knocks again.

Castiel usually opens the door before he even knocks. Could something have—

“Whoa!”

The door opens, and Sam nearly falls over backwards to get away.

The overwhelming scent of heat assails him, and God, he wants, he _wants._ But maybe Castiel doesn’t. If the angel were interested in that, he would have called him before this. No. No, he can control himself. He just… he just needs to get further away.

Castiel is disheveled, trench coat and suit jacket missing, tie loosened around his unbuttoned collar, blue eyes disoriented. “Sam?” His voice is hoarse.

“You…” He swallows to moisten his parched mouth, clears his throat. “You need to close the door. Please. I—I’ll call you. Get to your phone. Can you do that?”

The angel looks confused, but nods and closes the door. Sam shudders, staggers to the other side of the yard to sit with his back to the wall. Even the lingering scent of Castiel fills him with need, and it’s been way, _way_ too long. He presses the heel of his hand against his aching cock as he grabs his phone and bites back a whimper. God, he's this close just from the smell of it. He takes a few deep breaths, whispers a spell to cool the air around him. It takes maybe a minute, probably too long to keep Castiel waiting, clueless, but he finally manages to pull himself together enough to dial.

“You’re still outside.”

“Yes. Um… Sorry for my reaction. Uh… How are you feeling?”

“Feverish. Restless. Nauseous. Wet. I hurt all over.”

Sam tries very hard to block out the mental image. _Focus,_ he tells himself, _focus._ “How long have you uh…”

“Since Monday.”

_Oh. Oh my God._

“I’m probably ill. You should go in case it’s contagious.”

“What? No, no, you’re not ill. You’re um… You’re in heat.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause on the other end. “I always saw, but never knew the feeling.”

“I didn’t even know angels had heat cycles.”

“We don’t in our true forms, and our Grace suppresses our bodies’ physical needs. However, cut off from Heaven, Grace fades and with it my powers. Eventually, I will be as an ordinary human.” The angel makes a sound of discomfort. “This is… agonizing. Is it always like this?”

“Uh… Well, I’ve never experienced it personally, but I’m told it gets worse over time if you don’t do something about it. There are drugs that alleviate the uh… symptoms, for the lack of a better word, that you are experiencing. I—If you want, I can go buy some for you.”

Again, Castiel falls silent, and when no response is forthcoming after some time, he tries again, “Hello?” wondering if the line has gone dead.

“I’m here.”

“So do y—”

“No. It’s better and more expedient to let nature serve its intended purpose,” the other says matter-of-factly. “So let’s procreate.”

“ _Wh—What?!_ ” He clamps a hand over his mouth. Fuck, he feels faint. This— This isn’t real. “But I— You— D—don’t you want to do that with someone special?” He wants Castiel, of course he does, but… not if it’s some biological necessity, if—if it doesn’t mean something more.

A moment’s pause, then, “If you mean to ask if any passing Alpha would do, then the answer is no.”

That mollifies him somewhat, but still, he can’t live with this being a one-time satisfaction. Dean will be the first to say that’s why he never gets laid.

In his silence, the angel continues, “Sam Winchester. Will you come in, or will you make me go outside to fetch you?”

 _Oh my God, no._ He hangs up, scrambles to his feet, scampers around the corner to practically tumble through the door and back it shut. “No, no, please don’t.” In here, it smells of Castiel, of sweet slick and perspiration, even the scent of ozone faint beneath the heady desire, and a closer look shows Castiel’s shirt and pants are drenched where he stands by the couch. _Oh God._ It’s all he can do not to jump Castiel immediately — he’s so hard, he’s not sure he’ll even be able to knot the angel this round.

It’s Castiel who approaches, step unsteady, an answering erection clear in the bulge of his pants. He takes Sam’s face in his hands to look up into olive eyes. “Don’t ever think you aren’t special, Sam.”

Before he knows it, Sam’s lifted Castiel to kiss him, pressing him to the wall. The other’s lips move awkwardly, but the kiss is desperate, just like that day outside the library, almost battle-like this time in its fierceness and the occasional clash of teeth. Castiel moans as their erections brush even through four layers of fabric, and he only presses closer, slides his hands under soaked clothes.

"Is there a bed here?"

"Yes. Upstairs."

He leads Castiel up the stairs, removing pieces of clothing as they go. The angel clings to Sam, like he can’t bear to be apart, and Sam wishes this were more than just hormones. Blue eyes are guilelessly innocent, and Castiel’s skin is flushed, feverish to the touch and clammy with sweat. He’s also a lot more muscular than Sam expected, hidden under all those layers.

The bed is a mess when they reach it (Castiel has probably been lying here since Monday), but the angel just waves his hand, and it looks as good as new. Sam pushes the covers aside, lowers them onto the bed and quickly shifts to slide in all the way. Castiel makes a sound, at once immense relief and pleasure, and Sam puts every ounce of willpower into holding back, holding still for the other to adjust — even in heat, this is Castiel’s first time, and the angel is so, _so tight._

“Nngh… Oh—oh wow. I— This isn’t at all like how I imagined.”

The angel’s fingers tangle in his hair. “How did you imagine this?”

“Uh…” He ducks his head, suddenly and inexplicably shy — ironic now that they’re joined. “Slow. More candles and roses.” He chuckles sheepishly. “Somewhere nice. I um… I wanted this to be some amazing and unforgettable romantic experience, but… well, you wouldn’t appreciate that right now.”

“I won’t forget,” Castiel promises solemnly. “But we can try it your way next time.”

 _Next time._ Oh God.

Sam groans and moves, kissing the angel to muffle all the noise they are making. Castiel seems to have learned — this kiss is less awkward. His arms and legs wrap around Sam to draw the Alpha closer, deeper, and his cries suddenly seem to take on an anguished edge.

“S—Sam,” he gasps, punctuated by a keen. “Wh—what—”

 _Oh._ “Cas.” Sam presses their foreheads together. Their gazes lock. “Do you trust me?”

Without hesitation, “Yes.”

Sam smiles, giddy with elation. “Then relax. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It takes a moment for Cas to make sense of it, but then he does. Completely. And slaps a hand over Sam’s eyes as he arches off the bed with a shout, clenching tight.

Orgasm hits, sharp and sudden, almost painful in its intensity, and Sam shudders as he sags atop the other. The hand covering his eyes falls away, and he opens them to catch the dying rays of a brilliant radiance. As if by instinct, Cas bares his neck, and it is through sheer force of will that he doesn’t bite, that he only kisses the spot lightly. Even so, Cas tightens around him, makes the neediest sound, and he buries his face in the pillow to whimper as he spills more inside.

“C—Cas…” Oh, he wants; he wants so much. But this isn’t— shouldn’t be an impulse decision.

“I love you,” the other whispers simply, and he cries out as he sees stars again.

Fuck, he’s so far gone. He can already hear Dean calling him a total girl. And yet—

Once, he thought this impossible. He never knew angels mated, and even if they did, how could he ever be worthy?

He lifts his head to answer, to ask, but the limbs around him slip loose, and Castiel’s breathing evens out. Sam shakes his head fondly and kisses the angel’s temple. The exhaustion must have caught up. Pulling the covers over them both, he rolls them into a more comfortable position to ride out the aftershocks — they can talk later.

He falls asleep with Castiel cradled in his arms, warm and perfect around him.


	5. Chapter 4

Sam wakes to blue eyes staring at him, unblinking.

He jumps, slipping out — it’s a little unnerving.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, settling back under the covers with a reassuring smile. “Just surprised.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You’re beautiful,” he says again, and it still makes Sam blush. “And you smell very good. I enjoyed that very much. Can we do it again?”

Sam blinks as his brain catches up. “What, now?”

“Yes. Your way.”

“Oh. Oh uh… W—wow.”

A tilt of the head, disappointment. “You don’t want to?”

“No! I mean, yes, of course I do! It’s just… very sudden.” And now that the urgency of heat is gone, unexpectedly soon.

“Oh.” The angel lowers his gaze, pensive. “This is not common practice for humans then.”

“Not so abruptly, no,” Sam admits, scratching his head. “They kinda just—”

Cas looks up attentively, and he gently reels the angel in with a hand behind the neck.

“—like this.”

He kisses the other, unhurriedly this time, and Cas smiles, delighted, responding with enthusiasm and cupping Sam’s cheeks in his hands. Sam breaks the kiss for air, mouths his way down the angel’s jaw, and Cas tilts his head back to allow better access, breath hitching as Sam’s lips press to that spot.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asks as Sam moves away, and the witch freezes.

“Cas…” Sam breathes, meeting a blue gaze, conflicted.

The angel stills, again disappointed. “Do you not want to?”

“Of course I do, Cas. I’ve wanted to since… maybe that first kiss outside the library. But if I do, you’ll never be able to go home. An angel mated to an unsanctioned witch — it’s forbidden, isn’t it?”

Castiel scoffs, looking away. “I’m a traitor now, Sam. Treachery is… tricky, almost never forgivable. Unless there is proof that Zachariah’s goals were contrary to that of the Grigori and Heaven’s will, I can never return. Should I forego my mortal life’s happiness for that which may be lost forever?”

Sam flops onto the bed as the strength leaves his body, and he stares, flabbergasted. “Y—you knew that, and still—”

“There are worse fates than this, Sam.” The angel takes his hand, laces their fingers. “I have always been fascinated by humans and their ways. You are my Father’s finest creations, works of art. In ancient times, I often walked amongst you to observe, and when Father decreed the end of our active involvement in human lives in the seventh century, I joined the Grigori as the only exception to that law.” Cas turns to face him. “Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”

“Of course.”

“I... heard about the interrogations, the forced confessions, and I had questions, I had doubts, still do. Why resort to such methods when we could simply check as I did with you? I want to believe that the cause is just, that the stories are mere rumors. We are supposed to be your shepherds, not your murderers. Even the non-human criminals within our purview — we are to pass judgment upon them in the court of Heaven, not assassinate them. And yet…” The angel sighs. “I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, where I was mistaken, but I know that you are innocent and righteous. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

Sam is already shaking his head. “You don’t have to do this to protect me.”

“No,” Cas agrees. “That would be foolish. I am doing this because I reflected upon my anger after that first time and realized it was because I thought it a mere ruse. It confused me because w— I am not familiar with love that isn’t divine. Still, it is… easy to love you, Sam, though you constantly doubt your worth, and as my Grace wanes, I feel that love grow less divine still.”

“C—”

“If I loved you as I should, as an angel watching over a human charge, I would keep you from me because that is best for you even if it would hurt us both for a short time. Yet, I have welcomed you time and time again, though it endangers us both. Do you think me selfish, Sam?”

“What? Cas, that’s… I’m the one that keeps coming back! Dean thinks I’m crazy, Bobby calls me a lovestruck idjit, and I should probably be worrying about finals, but instead I— You tried to keep me out of this, remember?” he points out. “You didn’t make me walk to the library that evening.”

The angel bows his head for a moment, then looks up, accepting. “Whether our paths be fleeting or eternal, I pray they will never diverge. Earlier, you said your wish mirrors mine, so I ask you again, Sam Winchester.” He offers his neck once more. “Do you not want to?”

For a moment, he doesn’t quite remember how to breathe. Then, “Oh Cas,” Sam tangles the fingers of his free hand in dark hair, eyes shining. “It’s an honor.” He shifts to lie atop the other, their noses touching. “But you said my way; so— Ruusuja,” he murmurs with a smile, and suddenly, the bed is covered in rose petals beneath them.

Cas laughs and embraces him, then they’re kissing again, gently this time, before Sam nips his way down his lover’s jugular, licks at sweat-salty skin as Castiel’s breath and pulse quicken. The scent of ozone is now fainter still, and without it overwhelming his senses, Cas smells even more wonderful. He can hardly believe it, but the angel feels warm beneath him, beautiful and real, and he focuses on that as he bites.

It’s like a lightning strike.

The connection sears into place, so differently than how it was with Jess, so much more intense. He falls, and millennia pass in the blink of eye. Cas feels… incongruous, ancient and yet full of childlike wonder. At once, they are one and yet half, and he’s missed this, this connection, being mated.

“Claim me,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

Cas turns to him, confused. “Doesn’t it o—”

“What kind of commitment would it be if only one of us bears its mark?” Sam grins shyly. “Until I can get you a ring, let me at least have a matching bite.”

Here, Cas huffs a laugh and leans in obligingly. “I only care what is here,” he lays his palm flat over Sam’s heart, “but if it will make you happy.” Castiel’s teeth sink in, and Sam winces slightly as they draw blood. A rose petal is pressed to the mark when Cas pulls back. “I’d heal it, but there wouldn’t be a mark if I did.”

“I hope it scars,” Sam says with a smile, adoring.

It’s Cas who urges him to move, who tightens his hold and makes a sound of impatience. Cas, whose body feels strange and sensitive and for whom all of this is new. Sam hushes his angel — slow, he said, and he fully intends to savor this, to learn and explore.

He mouths his way down to worry a nipple with his teeth and tongue, lacing their fingers. He seems to have struck gold because Cas writhes beneath him, toes curling in the sheets, hand gripping his more tightly, the sound of his name almost a wail. He can smell more precome and slick with every flick of his tongue, and he’s sure Cas is going to come untouched — he can sense it now, through their bond — it’s gratifying. Switching over, he rolls the wet nub between his thumb and forefinger as he sucks on the other, and Cas covers Sam’s eyes with his palm as he cries out, surprised pleasure sparking across their connection.

Sam’s missed this so much.

The angel buries both hands in his hair and tugs up lightly, massaging his scalp when he obliges and capturing his lips again. It’s languid this time, slow, and it feels good, relaxing. Cas rolls them onto their sides, tugs his thigh over Castiel’s hip by the back of his knee to spread him open, and he pants between kisses.

“C—Cas…” He’s fully erect just from the press of fingers and the position.

One hand still buried in his hair, kneading his scalp lightly, the other trails blunt nails up his thigh to squeeze his ass, palms its way back down to straighten his leg and trace circles into the back of his knee. Tugging on his hair again, Cas varies the pressure, changes the path of his touch, dips into the creases, and every sensation seems to go straight to his cock, making it leak, making him whimper.

“You like this.” Castiel’s fingertips brush featherlight over his balls, and his hips jerk.

“Yes.” He turns to nibble on Castiel’s earlobe, trace the shell of the angel’s ear with his tongue. “Inside,” he whispers as Castiel’s fingertips tease at his entrance again. “Please.”

Jess discovered it, and between her and her vibrator, they had the best sex Sam’s ever had. He spent himself and then some, and they stayed in bed almost the entire weekend. He never got that far with Madison and Becky, but the siren reveled in the discovery, and as disastrous as that encounter was, the sex, at least, was phenomenal.

Cas presses in, finger slippery with— His nose tells him it’s Castiel’s own slick, and the thought is unbelievably hot. “Sh—shit, ah—ahhh…” Fuck, but he _needs_ it, and he consciously relaxes, turns his face into Castiel’s hand, kisses the pulse point on the angel’s wrist.

When Cas adds another finger, he winces, so the angel returns to one, lets him get used to the intrusion. His insides clench with desire as it slides deeper. Cas has found it, presses into the spot, and he moans into dark hair, his fingers kneading their way down his lover’s back. Every slide over his prostate brings him closer to the edge, makes the trail of fine hairs brushing against his cock feel more intense as he leaks more precome onto Castiel’s abdomen. When a second finger is added this time, it doesn’t hurt, and when Cas splays his fingers experimentally, he reluctantly grabs the angel’s arm.

“Alphas have a long refractory time,” he explains sheepishly at Castiel’s questioning look.

The angel tilts his head. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

“No, no, I just—”

“Then let me see.”

Oh.

“I can wait,” Cas adds, and it puts a stop to anything he might have said.

He lets go, locks his gaze with Castiel’s, and he’s sure that’s what does it. The crash of pleasure whites out everything but those blue, blue eyes, and then Cas is sucking on the tip of his cock, swallowing some of his seed, squeezing his knot, and his eyes clamp shut as he comes again, shouting the angel’s name. Cas keeps going though, and he can’t muster the coherence to tell the angel he’s going to be completely spent at this rate, but he’s also suddenly completely certain Cas doesn’t care.

He shivers as he comes down from it, and when he opens his eyes again, Cas is just running clean fingers through his hair with a fond smile. The angel is holding the book in his free hand, was probably reading it again until moments ago.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, hoarse and sheepish. He must have drifted off.

Cas shakes his head. “It was nice. Peaceful. Familiar.”

“Watching me sleep?” He grins, teasing.

Cas rolls to face him, mirroring the grin. “Yes.”

Taking a handful of the rose petals, he scatters them over his lover with a chuckle and pulls them over smooth skin in a caress. “That really is creepy, you know.”

“So I’m told.” The angel pecks him on the lips with a happy smile, uncaring. “I like your way.”

Sam turns him around to spoon him in a tight hug and nuzzle dark hair. “I like you.”

Cas makes a sound, at once contentment and desire, and Sam remembers suddenly that Cas said he’d wait earlier. So he nips his way down his lover’s spine, sweeps his hands over Castiel’s sides. He lingers at the small of Castiel’s back, sucks a mark into the skin there and turns his mate to lie face down. Cas writhes, and Sam slides off the bed to kneel on the floor, resting his arms on the back of Castiel’s knees to hold him still.

Here, the sweet scent is overwhelming, and if he could go again, he’d be hard just from the smell of it. Here, looking at how wet and ready his mate is as he traces circles up slick inner thighs, he can’t help licking a stripe up from behind the balls into velvet heat, and the taste of himself amid the sweet tang… this is something he’ll have to revisit someday.

“S—Sam…” Cas moans, canting his hips up and spreading his legs wider, wanton.

Fuck, he doesn’t know what he was expecting.

He runs the pad of his thumb over Castiel’s skin, parting the way, and traces the lip of Castiel’s entrance with his tongue. Cas keens into the mattress, even more slick flowing onto his tongue, and he can sense how close his mate is again — tension like a wire pulled taut running through Castiel’s frame and across their bond. Covering his eyes like Cas always does, he slips his tongue in and out rapidly, sucks on puckered skin, and—

“Agh—ahh!” Cas tightens around him with a sharp, shattered cry, sinks bonelessly into the mattress.

Sam kisses his way back up Castiel’s spine, climbing back onto the bed. The angel tenses a little when Sam reaches the skin between his shoulder blades, and Sam remembers — standing outside this house, his fingers tingling as they passed through majestic wings. He wants to touch them.

“Can I see?” he asks, knowing his mate will understand.

“...of course.” The hesitation makes him wonder, compels him to blanket Castiel’s body with his own and press his lips gently to the pulse point behind the ear.

“What’s wrong?”

Cas shakes his head. “They… They won’t be like they were that day.”

He runs his fingers soothingly through dark hair, sensing the upset.

“As my Grace wanes, they deteriorate,” Cas elaborates. “But… you should see them now. Before they are gone.”

He nods, focusing on them, and fits his palm between Castiel’s scapulae. “Propali.”

Cas gasps as his wings materialize. They are huge — Cas has to fold them to keep the tips from sweeping the corners of the ceiling, and the long feathers are downy soft on Sam’s skin. He can see signs of the deterioration though. The feathers are a dull black now, and there are broken, unkempt feathers in places. He gently strokes them, removing the broken pieces, and Cas groans softly in pain when his hands nudge the bones.

“They ache,” the angel explains, and beneath the feathers, he can see the skin looks bruised.

“Does this hurt?” he asks, rubbing gently in a circular motion. He wishes he had some kind of soothing balm he could use on them, but he doesn’t know of anything that would work in this case.

“A little, but no,” Cas sighs, relaxing. “Don’t stop. It feels better after.”

So he keeps massaging the angel’s wings, basking in the contented glow emanating from his mate, fits his hand between them to memorize their position. Cas sinks into sleep once more, and he’s glad. There’s nothing he can do to help, but if he can at least comfort Cas in any way, he’s glad. When he’s rubbed down the angel’s entire wingspan several times over, he makes sure he’s picked out all the broken pieces and smoothed the feathers out as best he can before dispelling the magic. Pressing featherlight kisses to where the now incorporeal wings are joined to Castiel’s back, he lies down beside his mate, pulls the covers back over them and picks up the open book beside Cas, curious.

As expected, he has trouble even telling the symbols on the pages apart. He keeps flipping through though, just to see, wishing he could magically understand Sumerian. The book isn’t very thick, maybe around seventy pages is Sam’s guess. Every page looks to have three paragraphs of text and what might be a page number at the bottom.

_Hm? If those are page numbers, then maybe the paragraphs are numbered too. These symbols look similar. I wonder if it’s anything like in the movies._

Unexpectedly, Cas stirs beside him. It’s been an hour since the angel drifted off, at best.

“You need to rest a little longer,” he advises when his mate snuggles closer. Now, he doesn’t say.

Cas shakes his head. “What do you see?”

“Hm… Are these numbers?” The taps the page to indicate the symbols he means.

“Yes.”

“Are they in order?”

“No. But putting the pages or the verses in order doesn’t yield any sensible results. The page numbers are all in the thousands and don’t form any known number series either.”

“Perhaps it’s some kind of code? What if the page numbers are the key? Like…” He ducks his head, but, at the risk of sounding silly, presses on. “Well, there’s this show I watched once where the characters used a number code to communicate while undercover. Every number referred to a page, line and word in a book, so they would read 539 as page five, line three, word number nine, and putting those words together formed the hidden message.”

Blue eyes widen, and Cas takes the book from him, flips back and forth through the pages several times. Then he sighs, “The result doesn’t make sense,” visibly deflating.

Sam slumps, sinking into the bed. What are the odds, anyway?

Abruptly, Cas sits up. “Wait. What if—”

Then he’s out of bed and running down the stairs, and Sam is clueless, but he only picks up his boxer briefs and undershirt to put them on before heading down as well. His plaid shirt is where he left it on the bannister, and he takes it with him to where Cas is seated on the couch, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper on the coffee table. Although each day seems warmer than the last, the nights are still cool, and he drapes the much larger shirt over Castiel’s shoulders. Cas doesn’t even seem to notice.

Then, just as suddenly, Cas drops the pen. Turning to him, the angel grabs his face with both hands and kisses him emphatically. He responds, of course, but before he can catch his breath, Cas has pulled back an inch.

“We did it,” Cas says simply, a brilliant smile, and when Sam only blinks dumbly, triumphantly hands the witch the piece of paper he’d been writing on.

“Oh,” Sam manages finally as his brain catches up. He looks down at the piece of paper and reads, “To reveal the four seals of promise, let a triad of keepers join hands where Nanna can be seen in his full glory and repeat the following verse sevenfold:

“Our summon’s come; our trial’s near  
The four shall come upon us here  
We guardians five, our oaths fulfill  
Covenants revive and fate unseal  
The day has come for reckoning  
The day has come; let judgment ring!”

“That’s translated, of course,” Cas explains, a hint of excitement. “I expect the spell will have to be read in Sumerian. Zachariah said three witches, so the witches are the keepers, and...” He trails off, eyes widening.

Then he jumps to his feet, shoves the book and the papers into a pile and sets the pile on fire.

“Wh— Cas!”

Sam leaps back, away from the flames, pulling Cas with him. “Why are y—?”

“This spell should never be cast. Never. It’s t—”

Just then, the refrain for K-Ci & JoJo’s All My Life starts playing, and Sam runs up the stairs to the landing where they’d left his jeans. It’s probably Dean wanting to know if he’s planning to return to the apartment that day at all. He catches it, just barely, as it slips out of the back pocket and answers.

“Hey!” It _is_ Dean, of course. “I’m just—”

“Sammy?! Don’t y—”

“Hey, baby. You miss your doggy? ‘Cause he sure misses you,” an unknown female voice drawls. In the background, there are the sounds of a struggle, of Dean’s muffled voice, like he’s trying to shout through a gag.

Sam freezes. “Who are you, and what have you done with Dean?!”

“Oh, don’t sweat the small stuff, Sammy.” She chuckles. “You should ask me what I’m gonna do to Deanie-boy here if you don’t do as I say.”

“If you—”

Dean screams in pain in the background, and he stops, drops to sit on the dusty steps as a hole opens up in the pit of his stomach. A nightmare. This is a nightmare.

“Oops, can’t help myself. See, I’m just _dying_ to rip his pretty, pretty face off. But...tell you what.” She drops her voice a little, as if they’re conspiring. “In three days, it’ll be the full moon. So go find yourself two friends, cast that spell, and you can have your pet back. What do you say?” she asks like he has a choice.

“H—how do I know you won’t kill him anyway?”

“Come on, Sam, you’d trust the guy who tried to arrest you, but not me?”

“Definitely.” She knows. She’s been watching them. He’s guessing it’s the woman Brady took orders from, maybe the same one he saw with Brady and Vice President Crowley that day.

“Aww, you sure know how to break a girl’s heart.” Still the same teasing drawl, still Dean’s muffled attempts to shout in the background. “Too bad you’ll just have to take your chances, hm?”

“No,” he says as Cas approaches, looking concerned. “We exchange. The book for Dean.”

She laughs. “You think I don’t know your boyfriend just burned it?”

“Then take me,” Cas says suddenly, grabbing the phone. “In exchange for Dean. I’m the only one on Earth who knows the spell now.”

“Wh— Cas?” No. No, he can’t—

“I understand.” The other hangs up then, breaking Sam out of his shock.

He lunges forward. “Cas!” Grabbing his mate by the shoulders, he shakes the angel. “What— How could— You c— I can’t let you!”

Cas steps forward to embrace him, sighing as he rests his head on Sam’s shoulder. “You want your brother back, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” He hugs the angel tightly, pressing a kiss into the crown of dark hair. “But you’re my mate, Cas. How could you think I’d trade you for him? You’re both just as important to me.”

“Do you have a better way? If only I hadn’t burned the book—”

That’s right. “Why did you?”

“It’s dangerous. The spell, it’s to unseal the Four Horsemen.”

Sam blinks. “ _The_ Four Horsemen?” Of the Apocalypse? “Like in Revelations?”

“Yes. Once unsealed, they can unseal Lucifer, and the Apocalypse will begin. The records say the four seals are guarded by four families, and the method to unseal them is guarded by a fifth. Since it seems witches are the keepers of the method, I must assume that the guardian families are also four different species of non-humans.”

“But why?”

It takes Cas a moment to understand the question. “Some demons probably want to unseal Lucifer, their creator. Others might want to use the rings’ powers for their own purposes. If the Grigori… perhaps they wish to purge the world. I don’t know.”

None of those sound good. If they save Dean only to die in the coming Apocalypse, what would be the point? “We can’t let that happen,” he decides.

“No,” his mate agrees. “Let’s try to find your brother.”

“You idjits! Why didn’t you just get the hell out of dodge when you had the chance?”

After trying every seeking spell they knew to no avail, Sam drove them to Bobby’s. Now, sitting in well-worn chairs and surrounded by the familiar smell of old books and motor oil, they’ve just finished explaining the situation to Bobby, who is, as expected, less than pleased.

Sam hangs his head. Alpha or not, Bobby is still the closest thing Sam has to a father. “We thought the danger was over.”

Bobby turns to Cas. “You knew better,” he states, pointing an accusing finger, and Cas nods.

“I did,” the angel admits.

Sam didn’t tell Bobby Cas was Grigori, but it seems Dean did — when he introduced Cas as his mate at the door, the Beta opened his mouth, shut it, searched the sky for patience and let them in with a frustrated growl. Sam is going to take that as a good sign. They have bigger things to worry about than the “of all people you could have chosen” conversation.

“Y—”

“He told me to stay out of it, Bobby,” Sam interrupts what he’s sure is going to be a tirade. “I didn’t listen. This is on me.”

“Damn right it is!” Bobby thumps the table as he rises. “Ain’t you got any good sense, boy?”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says quietly, blue eyes trained on the floor. “If I had only turned Sam away…”

“No.” Sam takes his hand and squeezes it. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that, Cas.”

Bobby grunts, turning to scan his bookshelf. “What have you boys tried?”

“Everything we know,” Sam answers, grateful they’ve moved on to the problem at hand. “Summoning, seeking, scrying — nothing works. Either they’re too far away for me to reach Dean, or they’ve used concealment or shielding spells. Maybe both.”

“Well, you’re missing the obvious.” Bobby sets a heavy tome down loudly upon the cluttered desk. “We know where they’ll be for the exchange tomorrow.”

“Not yet, we don’t,” Cas corrects with a frown. “She said she’d call again today.”

“Same difference. Point is we don’t need to look for Dean. We need to get you both out tomorrow.”

Just then, Sam’s phone rings. It’s Dean’s number, and he rushes to answer without letting his nerves bleed into his voice. “Hello?”

“Excited, aren’t we?” It’s the same woman from yesterday. “I like.”

“I want to talk to Dean.” He needs to know Dean’s still okay, still himself. He needs to breathe.

“Patience, big boy. Still got the unicorn with you?”

Sam furrows his brows. “Unicorn?”

“Rare creature, that one, giving himself up for a dog. Can’t say I get it, but… as long as it’s mine.”

“Yeah, he’s with me.” Cas steps closer to listen better.

“Great. Tell him to come to Evergreen Memorial Park in Omaha tomorrow at sundown. Alone and unarmed, of course. You know the drill.”

“I want to talk to my brother,” he insists.

She sighs. “Aren’t you the ladies man…” From further away now, “So talk, Deano. Tell him how much fun you’re having with li’l ol’ me.”

“Nngh, Sammy?!” It’s Dean. It’s Dean, oh thank God.

“Dean!!”

“Listen, you can’t trust her! You c—mmrngh!!!”

“Dean!!!”

“Well, that’s all, folks!” Back to her cheery drawl. “See you again next time!”

The line goes dead, and he knows better than to try calling back.

“Well?” Bobby asks impatiently, dropping another book on the pile.

“Evergreen Memorial Park,” Cas answers for him. “In Omaha at sundown.”

“Fuckin’ Omaha,” comes a familiar growl from by the door.

“Don’t you dare,” Bobby snipes before anyone else can respond.

Sam smiles as he turns to the African American leaning on the door frame with a tumbler of scotch in hand. “It’s good to see you, Rufus.”

“I can believe it.” Rufus pushes off, taking a few steps into the room, side-eying Bobby. “It must get old dealing with this miserable cuss here all by yourself.”

Sam laughs weakly. “It’s been a while.” Rufus is a match for Bobby in gruff and grouchy, and if possible, likes people even less, so he often stays in dog form and looks as menacing as he can manage.

“You guys wanna get a room or bone up on anti-demon spells?” Bobby adds a few more volumes to the stack with an irritable thud. “Before we’re all screwed.”

Sam and Cas exchange glances. The angel seems… frustrated somehow, and it’s only when Cas steps back with a resigned nod that Sam recognizes the feeling — powerlessness.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Omaha is just over two hours away, and Rufus won’t let anyone else drive, so Bobby is bickering relentlessly with him up front while Cas leans into Sam’s side in the back, lost in thought. Sam has his arms wrapped around his mate, but it doesn’t ease the angel’s disquiet. Sam’s anxious too — he’s worried about Dean, but he doesn’t want to lose Cas, and the thought that he might be trading one for the other, that everything could go wrong today, and they’re all going to end up dead…

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers the promise, half to himself, and Cas nods.

“That is not what weighs on my mind,” the angel explains at last, just as quietly. “Nothing they can do to me will make me talk. However, your brother, you… They may use you against me. Most of all… I keep coming back to the thought that we may never see each other again, and it’s like… suffocating, and being taken by a creeping chill, all at once.”

Sorrow, Sam thinks — he knows the scent. Fear. “No.” He shakes his head, tightening his embrace. “That’s not going to happen,” and if he has to believe enough for them both, he’ll sure as hell try.

“Human emotions are so… intense, so physical,” Cas muses, sighing as he rests his head wearily on Sam’s shoulder. “Does it not tire you?”

In spite of everything, Sam chuckles. “I’ve had time to adjust.”

Cas smiles up at him fondly, and he kisses the angel on the forehead, protective. They’ve got spells memorized, potions and charms ready to go, and Cas still has Ruby’s weapons as well as his own. Demons are telekinetic too, which means any fights that erupt will have to be settled physically. Regular game hunting makes Bobby the best shot, so the gun is now with him and the knife with Sam. Armed to the teeth doesn’t mean safe though, and he doesn’t trust the woman to play by the rules.

Suddenly, the car jerks as Rufus makes a sharp turn off the highway, and Sam wakes with a start, realizing sheepishly that he drifted off. With all the preparations, they didn’t get much sleep last night.

Cas, too, stirs as Rufus snaps, “That is still a dumbass plan.”

“Yeah? Fine, you come up with a better one,” Bobby retorts from the passenger seat.

“You remember the last time we were here, Bobby?”

“You know what? Screw you. That’s low.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas pipes up then. “This would have been easier if I still had all my powers.”

“Yeah, well, cryin’ over spilt milk ain’t never helped anybody,” says Bobby, and Sam’s not sure if it’s directed at Cas or Rufus.

“You kids got everything?” Rufus asks as he follows a sign to the memorial park.

“Yes, mom,” Sam teases in an effort to lighten the situation. It’s kinda funny hearing Rufus call a millennia-old angel one of the “kids” too.

“Shut up, boy,” the familiar growls before turning back to Bobby as he pulls up by the side of the road. “You get the kids lunch and me a bottle of Blue. I’m going to scope out the place, set some traps.”

Bobby circles around and gets into the driver’s seat. “Hey, you watch yourself,” he says as Rufus shifts into dog form. “No telling if they’d show up early too.” As the rottweiler runs off, he watches from the rearview mirror before shutting the Chevelle’s door. He doesn’t drive away until Rufus is out of sight.

Grabbing lunch at Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Sam learned he’s the only one in the house who hasn’t been there before. The proprietor’s daughter, Jo, asked where Dean was, and he didn’t want to say any more than that they were on their way to pick his brother up and maybe they’ll swing by together on the way back. Between the nerves and sleep deprivation, he and Cas barely manage more than half a burger and a cup of coffee each, and they buy the scotch before heading to the memorial park to meet up with Rufus over an hour before sundown.

The familiar is waiting by the entrance, and Bobby starts sipping from his hip flask as they follow Rufus to one of the gardens. There’s no one around as they walk along the rows of well-kept graves, past vases of colorful flowers, only the rustling of oak and cypress leaves in the evening breeze, but the idyllic landscaping doesn’t quite soften the foreboding peace. Sam takes Castiel’s hand, the angel laces their fingers, and they walk in silence, letting the scent of fresh greenery wash over them.

The sun is just beginning to set when they catch sight of a group of four approaching from the other side of the park. The stench of sulphur precedes them by halfway across the clearing. Two men are carrying Dean slumped between them, and a brunette with long wavy hair wearing a leather jacket over jeans and a tank top leads them.

“There you are… Look who didn’t come alone,” drawls a familiar voice as they approach. The woman twirling a knife in her hand at the front of the group is the one they’ve been talking to over the phone.

“Until you get your friend out of Dean Winchester, I’d say we can call us even,” Cas ripostes coldly, giving all four of them a hard stare.

Sam glances at Cas, then back at Dean worriedly. No wonder he couldn’t reach Dean. The demon probably only let Dean out whenever they were on the phone.

The woman smiles, teasing. “Hi. I’m Meg. I’m a demon,” she says sweetly.

“Yeah, sure,” Sam replies, straightening to his full height and putting every Alpha marker into his most imposing stance. “We weren’t holding out any hopes here. Now you tell your buddy there to smoke out of my brother, or this exchange is off.”

The two demons let Dean go, and the demon possessing him drops the pretense, straightening and stretching his joints with audible cracks. “But it’s nice in here,” not-Dean whines with a grin, green eyes turning black. “Warm and fluffy. You could almost forget it’s a dog.”

Sam reaches for a potion, but Bobby beats him to it, tossing the contents of the flask he’s been pretending to drink from all over Dean as he shoots the demon nearest to him. Switching to an immobilizing potion, Sam flings it at Dean as Rufus tackles the other demon, shifting in midair. Bobby whirls on Meg then, but she disarms him and grabs the gun, then throws him at Rufus even as Cas takes advantage of the struggle to stab the other demon with his angel blade.

Bobby and Rufus roll twice, then “Balls!!!” Bobby swears as the ground gives way beneath them — one of Rufus’ traps, a deep trench.

Sam throws a potion at Meg, but she darts out of the way and kicks him into a few gravestones.

“Sam!” Cas runs to his side and pulls him to his feet, prepared for Meg to attack, but instead, she grabs Dean and presses the knife she is holding to his throat.

“Now you’ve really stepped in it, kids,” she says sharply, flipping her hair out of her face.

The demon wearing Dean smirks. “This knife won’t hurt me, but it will kill your precious puppy.” The knife nicks Dean’s neck as she drags his frozen body backwards, and the demon hisses as a thin line of blood forms.

She grins, fierce. “Oops, my hand slipped. You’re one heavy mutt.”

“Stop.” Sam steps in front of Cas and squares his shoulders. “Just let my brother go. This was supposed to be an exchange.”

“It was until the old man jumped the gun and shot _my_ brother,” Meg retorts, watching them carefully as she continues to back away. “So here’s what’s going to happen, Bullwinkle.” She aims the gun she snatched at the trench where Bobby and Rufus are trapped in the dirt. “You’re going to hand Clarence over, or I’m going to kill everyone here.”

“No.” Cas strides to the front, the tip of his angel blade pressed over his heart. “If you hurt any one of them, the spell will be lost to you forever.”

Sam whirls. “Cas? What are y—”

Meg chuckles. “You really do know how to make a girl’s nethers quiver, don’t you?”

“Angels,” the other demon sighs. “Always in a hurry to be the martyr.”

“Oh, but that’s not just suicide. It’s murder, which is all manner of hot.” She smirks. “That salesman of yours, he sign up to get killed? ‘Cause I know my sweet actress wannabe from Cheboygan here sure as hell didn’t.”

Sam turns to the angel. “Cas, what’s she talking about?”

“Ooh, you didn’t tell loverboy! Naughty, I like.”

“Sam, I—”

“Here, let me bottom-line it for you,” not-Dean interrupts. “Your _angel_ there is just like us, needs to ‘borrow’ a meat suit to walk around in ‘cause we ain’t got no physical form.”

“You’re wrong,” Cas ripostes firmly. “We’re nothing like you. We ask for and are willingly given what you take by force.”

“Tch, semantics,” the demon scoffs. “He dies, the body dies too. Murder by any other name.”

“No,” Cas says again. “Jimmy knows what’s at stake.”

“Jimmy?” And Sam knows, he knows this isn’t the time, but… the revelation suddenly makes it very important. “Then did he… The mating,” he grasps at the words weakly. “Did Jimmy agree to that too?”

Cas opens his mouth to reply, but then Meg shouts, and they turn as Rufus slams into her from the side. The knife sinks into skin, and the demon gurgles wet cackling as Dean’s body falls to the ground, blood gushing from the gash in his neck.

“Dean!” Sam moves towards his familiar, then—

CRACK resounds, loud and sharp. In the silence left behind, Sam searches for the source of the explosion, watches as if in slow motion as the rottweiler falls off Meg to the ground with a dead thud.

“RUFUS!!!”

Bobby is yelling as if from very far away. The gun is smoking in Meg’s hand. Rufus isn’t moving.

He sees Meg run towards Cas and Cas moving to stab himself, but it’s like his body has turned to lead, and he can’t make it move fast enough.

_No. No, no, no._

Suddenly, a bright white light illuminates the area, and he shields his eyes against the glare. When it fades, Meg and Dean are lying unconscious on the grass. He glances up just in time to see Cas being grabbed from behind.

“Hello, little brother.”

Sam can’t believe his eyes.

It takes a moment, but blue eyes widen in disbelief as Cas stops struggling long enough to see. “G—Gabriel?”

“Oops,” the newcomer says with a grin. “Can’t have you remembering that after all the trouble I went to.” He presses his hand to Castiel’s brow, and the angel collapses to the ground.

“P—Professor Løkse?” Sam manages to gasp as the man skips towards him.

“Hey there, kiddo.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Your alternative doctor?” Gabriel’s grin is cheeky. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Then his hand is on Sam’s forehead before Sam can react, and the world, once again, flares into brilliant white.

Sam wakes to a white room and the caustic stench of antiseptic, and his first thought has him leaping to his feet off the cot he’s lying on.

_Dean! Cas! Rufus! Bobby!_

His wildly searching eyes find first Dean, then Cas, lying on what look like hospital beds beside his own, but Rufus and Bobby are nowhere to be seen. Dean is still unconscious, but not even a scar remains of the deep cut that had been over his jugular. Cas, too, looks to be in one piece, and when he makes for the door, sits up with a grimace and offers, “Bobby and Rufus are in the next room.”

Sam stops, going to Castiel’s side instead. “You’re okay… Where are we?”

“A Grigori hospital. You’re just in time. The nurse, Naomi, has gone to tell Michael I’m awake.” The moment of panic must have been obvious, either on his face or over their connection, because Cas takes his hand. “Let’s hear what Michael has to say. It might not be bad news.”

Sam looks at his mate. “You don’t really believe that.”

“No,” Cas agrees, “but we don’t have a choice.”

“Who’s Michael?” Sam asks as it occurs to him.

“Head of the Grigori.”

“Oh.” He looks down at the white gown and sheets. At best, Michael will call him unclean, say he defiled Cas, blacklist them both, or banish Cas. At worst, they’ll be detained and interrogated, then executed. They might never see the light of day again, and no amount of Alpha chutzpah can soften the icy claws of dread sinking into his core.

“About… your question,” Cas says, and Sam glances up, confused. “Jimmy,” his mate clarifies, expression grave.

“Oh,” he says again.

“I… It’s true that angels have no physical form, and this body is not my own. However, we do require a person’s express consent to possess their body, after which their soul remains dormant within. But…” Cas struggles with how best to continue the explanation. “A human body cannot ordinarily sustain more than one of the same type of metaphysical entity at once. As time passes, the stronger will automatically subsume the weaker, and angels without Grace are almost identical to human souls.”

Sam’s eyes widen as realization hits.

“Yes. It is as you have concluded. As my Grace waned, Jimmy’s soul began to merge with mine, and the more time passed, the more similar we grew in both form and experience.” Here, Cas laces their fingers. “So we became less and less two separate beings and more and more two aspects of a single being. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t happen because Angelic Grace prevents it, and possession is often temporary for the mission. But due to the circumstances…” He looks away, troubled. “A full merge takes months. It’s a very gradual process, and the… signs aren’t obvious. By the time I realized what was happening, I no longer had the power to leave Jimmy Novak’s body, and although incomplete, the merge is irreversible. I know not where to begin making amends to his family.”

“But… Then…” Sam doesn’t really know what to ask, what to protest.

“It is easy to say that, due to the soul merge, whatever decisions we make, we make as one. Yet, because I am, at all times, the dominant personality, they are always primarily my choices rather than Jimmy’s.” Cas shakes his head sadly. “Do you… understand, Sam? The answer isn’t so simple, and I’d understand if it doesn’t satisfy you, but—”

“No. You’re my mate, Cas,” Sam interrupts firmly. “I won’t abandon you over something that cannot be undone.” No matter the implications, that much is clear.

Just then, the door opens, and a brunet walks in, just the sort you’d expect — tall, well-built, handsome and regal in a dark gray suit with knowing gray-green eyes gazing out of a proud face. Behind him, in a white suit, an equally proud-looking brunette shuts the door. They’re accompanied by the sharp scent of ozone — both angels.

“Michael,” Cas greets, bowing his head slightly.

Not knowing what to say, Sam only nods.

Michael doesn’t even look at him. “Castiel. Naomi tells me you are well enough to report?”

Cas nods. “I am.”

“Then I will hear it.” He takes the chair on the other side of Castiel’s bed. “We lost all contact after Zachariah’s demise. You may begin from there.”

Sam squeezes his mate’s hand as Cas recounts the events after Zachariah attacked them outside the library leading up to the confrontation with Meg at the cemetery.

That’s when he notices.

“Wait, there’s something—” He shakes his head, then realizes Cas and Michael are staring at him — Cas in question, Michael in mild annoyance at the interruption. Oops, he didn’t notice he was thinking aloud. “No, I mean…” He flails a little, trying to explain. “Cas, what’s the last thing you remember?”

For a moment, Cas furrows his brows, then his eyes widen. “The white light.”

“Right. A white light flared through the cemetery, and the next thing we know, we’re here,” Sam agrees, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But… Doesn’t it feel like something’s missing? I’m quite sure there was something after that, but I’m drawing a blank.” He frowns, frustrated.

Castiel’s expression turns anguished. “I don’t remember either. This cannot be natural. Angels remember everything.” He reaches up to dig his fingers into his temples. “I can’t even remember the spell we fought so hard to protect.”

Michael turns to Naomi. She shakes her head.

He turns back to gaze at them in contemplative silence. “If it is indeed the spell you claim it is, then it is for the best that you’ve forgotten,” he says at last. “Still, this tampering with your memories warrants further investigation. It is no simple feat.”

The word “investigation” calls to mind invasive ear probes and awake live brain dissection, and he probably looks the picture of abject horror, for Cas immediately says, “With all due respect, I don’t think you’ll find the answer in our heads.”

“No,” Naomi agrees, speaking for the first time since she walked in. “I didn’t.”

Sam sits down. Fortunately, there’s a chair right behind him.

Michael rises. “We will look into the incident at the cemetery in Omaha. In the meantime, Castiel, you will return to active duty as soon as you are able.” At Castiel’s look of surprise, he adds, “After Zachariah’s demise, we uncovered much evidence of his many crimes, including conspiring with demons and the abduction of humans. We have since returned Miranda Hazel to her home without the traumatic memories of her abduction and posthumously discharged Zachariah dishonorably. You were right to execute him. Anael has taken over his duties, and you will henceforth report to her, Castiel.”

Cas nods. “I know Anael. What about Sam?”

Sam looks up at Michael, whose considering gaze has finally turned on him, as if in mere afterthought on something wholly insignificant.

“In light of your _relationship_ with Castiel, Sam Winchester,” the angel says at length, and the distaste is thinly veiled, “you will be required to apply for Grigori sanction.” He heads to the door.

“Th—that’s it?”

Castiel nudges him pointedly as Michael looks back, puzzled and impatient.

“Were you expecting something else?”

“N—n—no!” He laughs sheepishly. “I just— Uh… Thank you.”

Michael’s expression turns longsuffering, but he simply nods and leaves with Naomi close behind. As soon as the door closes behind them, Sam flops forward onto Castiel’s bed in relief.

They’re going to be okay after all.


	6. Epilogue

“Would you look at my baby brother, all sanctioned and up in angel now.” Dean claps Sam on the shoulder as they walk across campus together. The process of getting sanctioned involves a thorough background check and a probationary period, so it’s taken the rest of the term to get his application officially approved.

“What does it mean to be up in angel?” Cas asks, confused.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas.” Sam elbows Dean, embarrassed. “Stop that.”

It’s the first day of the new semester, and both Dean and Cas have decided to grab breakfast and walk to class with him. Life has returned to its normal routine, but normal is good; normal is _safe_. Dean remembers little of his time with Meg, Bobby and Rufus are back to bickering over cars and shotguns in Sioux Falls, and the cheery atmosphere on campus makes it easy to forget the murders that happened here only a few months ago.

Cas tilts his head as they approach Aristo Hall. “I need to go,” he says ruefully.

With work back in full swing, the angel is often away for missions, but flight allows him to visit often, and that’s more than enough for Sam. After leaving the hospital, they went to visit Jimmy’s family together, and while the Novaks had been upset by Castiel’s explanation, they also understood that they were no longer looking at the man they knew. There wasn’t any point in staying, but feeling responsible for their loss and not knowing what else he could do, Cas asked them to call if they ever needed any help. He still checks on them occasionally, just to make sure they’re doing okay, and Sam doesn’t know if there’s anything more either one of them can do.

“Okay.” Sam leans down to peck his mate on the cheek, and even with the overpowering scent of ozone back, he can clearly smell Cas is _his_. There’s a deep, primal contentment in that, and he knows it’s shared. “Take care, Cas.”

“You too,” Cas replies, then adds, “You’ll practice with me?” in a teasing whisper, and Sam blushes.

He’s taking Intermediate Greek this term, it’s the first class of the day at 10:20am, and if last semester’s Latin selection is anything to go by, Professor Løkse promises to cover the most scandalous Hellenic literature ever produced.

“Wh—who else would I practice with?” he mumbles, ducking his head.

“Ooh, look, Samantha’s blushing!” Dean laughs, and Sam turns to glare at him.

“Don’t you have a date, Dean?”

Dean’s seeing Lisa, a secretary at Smith, Wesson & Associates, the nearby Grigori Alliance law firm Sam is now interning at part-time. They’ve both taken the day off today to visit the travelling carnival in town. Sam and Cas are going tomorrow instead because Sam’s class is cancelled.

“All right, I’m going, I’m going,” Dean grouses, but he gives Sam a brief one-armed hug before walking back to where he parked the Impala.

Chuckling, Cas kisses Sam on the cheek as well and nods goodbye to Dean as he walks into the nearest cluster of trees to fly away. Sam can’t keep the smile off his face as he pushes through the double doors, and he almost walks right into someone as he heads left towards the stairs.

It’s President Crowley, newly appointed and exuding a cloud of expensive cologne, chatting on his cellphone as he steps around Sam.

“Easy, love,” he’s saying in his most reassuring voice, and Sam’s sure the President could convince the most pious Bible-thumpers to sell their souls if he tried. “There’s always a Plan B.”

_Wait a minute._

Sam turns as President Crowley exits Aristo Hall. They’d forgotten in all the chaos after finding the book and dealing with Meg. Brady had been talking to President Crowley and a blonde that day outside Hohenheim. Perhaps… No. Sam shakes his head, making his way up the stairs. There is no way to prove that conversation meant anything suspicious. It could have been something mundane about student affairs and such. After all, Brady had been possessed throughout their entire acquaintance, and Sam never even knew. At the very least, whether or not President Crowley was involved, the Four Horsemen’s Rings are lost to the world now.

There’s a sense of satisfaction in knowing they might have forestalled the Apocalypse, and he certainly doesn’t regret the adventure that won him an amazing mate and internship. But as Professor Løkse goes through the syllabus and introduces their first reading assignment, life settles firmly into normal, and Sam thinks he’d rather like it to stay that way.

~ _fin?_ ~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! ♥
> 
> All mistakes are mine. Let me know if you found any.
> 
> I appreciate feedback of literally any kind, so let me know what you think of it!


End file.
